


The Goddess of Blessed Deaths

by montblanca



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Mythology, Ancient Greece, Art, Art History, Athens, Calydon, Character Death, Cigender Characters, Daimones, Death, Death as a character, Demigod to God, Demigods, Demons, F/M, Gender Issues, Goddesses, Gods, Gods and Goddesses, Gorgons (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Greece, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Grim Reapers, Hades as the god and setting, Heracleidae of Euripides - Freeform, Herakles by Euripides - Freeform, Heterosexual/Straight Romance, Historical, Historical Fantasy, Historical References, Human, Human Sacrifice, Inaccurate Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Inspired by Heracles, Inspired by Herakles, Inspired by Makaria, Inspired by Thanatos, Inspired by Thanatos and Makaria, Inspired by the Labors of Heracles, Inspired by the Labours of Heracles, Inspired by the Trials of Heracles, Labors, Legend: Twelve Labors of Heracles (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Mount Olympus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Mythology References, Olympians, Oracles, POV Female Character, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Pagan Gods, Paganism, Personification of Death, Personification of plague, Psychopomps, Reapers, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, References to God(s), Research, Sacrifice, Self-Sacrifice, Souls, Suspicions, Titans, Trials, Work In Progress, angel of death - Freeform, historical fiction - Freeform, maiden as in young woman not as in virgin, psychopomp, research included (links and art), sickness and disease, updates every other week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28442244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montblanca/pseuds/montblanca
Summary: A sacrifice and a lover leads Macaria to face her Fate as a goddess of death.An exploration of the story of how Macaria becomes Makaria the Goddess of Blessed Death and somewhat also an exploration of some of the gender issues that can be found in ancient myths, specifically Greek ones such as in Herakles.*Art images and historical research sources, links, etc. now included!!! Great for those interested in learning more about lesser-known gods, goddesses, legends, and myths as well as more famous ones, great for fans of or those looking to learn more about art and history! This story focuses on two of the god and goddesses of Death, Thanatos and Makaria, and semi-indirectly focuses on the stories surrounding Herakles, but will also look at various other intersecting and similar/parallel legends and myths! Links to all easily accessible sources provided!*M rating only bc there are a few sex scenes, but they won't be explicit.Not sure if word count matters to readers here, but: only the first few chapters are really short, I'll try to keep the rest ~2-3K.Updates scheduled for every other week while in school
Relationships: Acacius/Hyllus (inferred), Deianira/Demophon, Hades & Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Hades/Persephone, Hades/Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Hebe/Hercules | Heracles (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Heracleidae of Euripides, Herakles by Euripides, Herakles/Deianira, Herakles/Hebe, Herakles/Iole, Human/God - Relationship, Hyllus/Iole, Macaria daughter of Hades/Thanatos (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Thanatos/Macaria, Thanatos/Makaria
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	1. Prologue I: The Curse Of A Woman

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to AO3, I hope you enjoy what you read here and am open to respectful feedback. Hate of any kind won't be tolerated here. 
> 
> I want to make sure you guys feel safe/secure enough to speak your minds and comment--including, and most especially, if something in my writing is problematic (I'm cishet and white; while I try to be proactively aware, my writing does tend to reflect that, and I'm not naive enough to think I'll be perfect all the time) so do point out those moments to me, if you feel comfortable enough to do so. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

When my father saved my mother from the faun, neither knew that he was actually dooming himself.

My mother’s name means “man-destroyer.” Her love was borderline obsessive, some might say. Perhaps my father should have seen the red flags, perhaps great clanging alarms should have sounded in his mind.

History will blame his death on her jealousy, but I grew up seeing both sides. He held power. Influence over politics, influence over individuals and thus society, influence on how his— _our_ —story would be told. He embodied power. He could battle a lion one-on-one and with the help of his best friend, a hydra.

My father was the King Arthur to us: powerful and righteousness. Men and women alike fawned. He would have three wives—some say four—several consorts, and so many lovers and children that no one storyteller knew it exactly. One of many lovers and one of few wives was my mother. The difference between her and the rest, the difference that allowed her to climb that ladder from lover to wife, was her status: Princess of Calydon.

So, I think it’s fair to say my father was too busy to see what he was driving my mother to, not that she is wholly innocent: she did knowingly kill him, even if driven to madness.

It was this madness that killed him, or got him killed, drove us from our home, and me to Hades.

[ALCIDE E DEJANIRA CONCORSO BALESTRA 1801 ](https://www.accademiasanluca.eu/it/collezioni_online/scultura/archive/cat_id/1260/id/564/alcide-e-dejanira)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Image: ALCIDE E DEJANIRA, CONCORSO BALESTRA 1801  
> https://www.accademiasanluca.eu/it/collezioni_online/scultura/archive/cat_id/1260/id/564/alcide-e-dejanira 
> 
> My understanding of the sculpture: Alcide means "glory of Hera," Herakles is known as various titles and epithets, most often relating back to his namesake the goddess Hera. Heracles/Hercules (Herakles in this story, Alcide in the sculpture) has killed the centaur (also called faun in some sources) Nessus and rescued Deianira. Herakles and Deianira embrace. It looks as though Nessus lays dead underneath (that could be some other animal, idk for sure, but given the being has four horse-like legs and a human top... I am guessing it is Nessus by reason of deduction lol). 
> 
> The story of Deianira and examples of her in classical art: 
> 
> https://www.amantascott.com/deianira
> 
> https://www.louvre.fr/en/oeuvre-notices/hercules-deianira-and-nessus
> 
> https://artgallery.yale.edu/collections/objects/300


	2. Prologue II: Death and Rebirth (Thanatos POV)

A silent, apprehensive crowd congregates at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the Parthenon. Limestone pillars rise up towards him. In front of the temple, a small group of figures stand around the marble altar. Incense fills the air, wafting up into the clouds where it tickles Thanatos’s nose. He watches nervously. 

The young woman tied to the altar trembles, tears falling down the sides of her face into her ashy, brunette hair. She grips the rope that force her arms to stretch out towards two of the altar’s corners and her knees bend slightly, more rope binding her ankles to the bottom of the altar. She wears a white ritual robe that falls around her and bleeds into the off-white marble. 

Thanatos itches to go down, to tell her it will be fine, that he has found a way, but Hades demanded he not intervene. The red-tipped white and black wings behind him flutter as the priest approaches the altar, continuing his droning chant that Thanatos blocked out a while ago. He does not care for the prayers. They are never for him, though he is often the responder. That’s how it has always been, but luckily, Hades has an exploitable soft spot that stays with him half of the year, and it’s spring: when the god would be at his most sympathetic. Hades will not break his end of a deal, but nevertheless, Thanatos’s heart is in his throat. He feels as if he might vomit it up as the blade in the priest's hand rose.

Thanatos’s fists ball so tightly his nails draw blood from his palms. He forces his eyes to stay open. The priest brings the blade down. Macaria screams, a shrill sound that twists into choking that brings Thanatos to his knees among the clouds. She is so far, but he can see her blood clearly, can hear her choking and coughing as if she were right in front of him. 

[The Sacrifice of Iphigenia, François Perrier, c. 1632-33](https://www.wga.hu/html_m/p/perrier/sacrific.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Image: The Sacrifice of Iphigenia  
> https://www.wga.hu/html_m/p/perrier/sacrific.html
> 
> Depicting the sacrifice of Agamemnon's daughter Iphigenia from The Iliad


	3. Fire and Fates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the new year. 2020 was rough for all, rougher for some. Hopefully we'll get some concrete change in 2021. In the meantime, thank you for the reads. Feel free to let me know what you're reactions are--and thank you for my first Kudos and comment, Elnouk! Enjoy :)  
> -MB

Thanatos paces, the tips of his wings dragging lazily against the clouds he walks on. His sister Ker sits, twisting her finger through the cloud as if it was cotton. Her cheek rests against her palm as she watched below. 

“How much longer do you think?” she asks. 

They’ve been waiting for days at this point. Deianira gave Herakles the coat soaked in Hydra’s blood. The pyre was built on Mount Oeta. Heracles was burning--and not dying. 

After two days, even Thanatos has to admit it’s getting to be vexing. Sure, demigods are unusually tough, but they still die as easily as the next mortal once a fatal blow lands.

“It makes no sense,” Thanatos mutters. He stops moving to cast another look down at the pyre. Herakles’s body remains intact among the flames. 

“Does that matter?” Ker asks. 

“I’m going down,” he decides. 

“I’m going home,” she says and evanesces as though she’d abruptly become one with the crowd. 

Without any horror or violence, there is no reason for Ker to stay. Thanatos wasn’t sure of what was happening at first, hence him calling upon her, but after the first few hours of nothing changing, Ker quickly grew bored. It’s a wonder she lasted two days. 

With less than a thought, clouds gives way to dirt and rock beneath Thanatos’s sandaled feet and fine mist morphs into jagged mountain sides. Where the air had been cool, it becomes heated and humid from the pyre. Those who came up the mountain side cannot see Thanatos and he walks freely among them. 

Herakles’s wife, Deianira, is nowhere to be seen, but there is always at least one of his children nearby. Much like Thanatos, it’s the third sleepless day for the warrior-charioteer Iolaus, but where it has no effect on Thanatos, it wears on Iolaus. His eyes sink deep into his skull and his expression is slack. Few engage with the older warrior. Since the pyre was built, he has acted as a dutiful guard. 

Thanatos stands beside him. Herakles’s daughter Macaria stands on the other side of him. On the first day, when everyone still thought Herakles would burn and end his own suffering, she prayed that his death be an easy one. No one prays about death. It’s almost un-Greek to invoke Death. So, it was silent, but as Death, Thanatos heard. It is not unheard of but certainly unusual to hear a prayer made in his name. Now, she squeezes her Uncle Iolaus’s hand. 

The three stand so close to the pyre that Thanatos squints against the heat’s onslaught. Herakles’s body is immobile among the flames, as though he fell into rigor mortis and the flames are as cold as the winter night air. He steps closer, and the air shifts. The wind picks up, and dark clouds draw near. Macaria and Iolaus stumble backwards. 

“We have to set up protection for the pyre!” Iolaus says. 

Macaria, however, stares up at the sky. Slate-gray clouds cover the sky. A flash of light spreads through the darkness. “Uncle Iolaus,” she calls. 

Iolaus is barking out orders to surrounding men. When Macaria’s brothers Hyllus and Ctesippus come up, Macaria is quick to place herself between the men so they have no choice but to acknowledge her. 

“It’s lightning, Uncle Iolaus,” she says. Her calm demeanor is like a single rose within a twisted, mangled thorn bush as men rush about to do as Iolaus has bade. They are frantically trying to find supplies to hoist a canvas over the pyre. Thanatos marvels at the young woman. 

Iolaus stares at Macaria incredulously. “Yes, it is,” he says. Rain drizzles down, and he curses. “Girl, return to your mother. Ctesippus, would you?” 

Macaria’s brown eyes blaze. “You of all people should know,” she snaps at Iolaus. The wind whips the ends of her brunette hair up in a crude rendition of dancing snakes. “You’re going to insult the god of gods.” 

When Ctesippus reaches for her arm, Macaria jerkes away from him. Another flash of lighting. A crack of thunder. She marches away from the pyre. Thanatos drops the mirage and flutters his wings. 

Iolaus gasps and staggers backwards, falling. Guards still as if Medusa looked at them. At the commotion, Ctesippus and Macaria spin around. Macaria is the first to move. Ctesippus makes to grab her but with one glance from Thanatos, the strongest son of Herakles freezes. Macaria approaches warily but steadily with a lowered gaze but sure steps. Gazes shift between Thanatos and her. He is about imposing as it comes, the only comfort being that he is neither Hades nor the Keres, which is momentarily wiped from memory at the sight of the seven-foot, blonde, fair god with speckled wings spanning over twenty feet when spread. Zeus’s weather melodrama makes spreading them unnecessary, though. 

Even so, Macaria stands a few feet away with doe-eyes. Her lips part. Then, the lightning strikes. It hits the pyre, and Macaria cries out. Thanatos is all but forgotten as she races passed him to the smoldering pyre. Herakles is gone. She turns to Thanatos, but he vanishes before she can speak.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Down below, as far below as one can go, the underworld lives in darkness hazy from the orange candlelight. Among the vast amount of rooms is one very large workroom. It is simple with no décor and little furniture: three klismoi* for three aged sisters and a wooden spinner, which the youngest works with.

Three sisters sit amongst one another, unusually silent. Their song of what was, what is, and what will be has paused. The eldest and sternest, Atropos raises her abhorred shears to the thread that Clotho spun and Lachesis measured. Their gazes are glued to those metallic edges as they close on and snip the life.

Heracles is dead; the Keres, dispatched. He put on Deianira’s cloak. Zeus sent lightning down to burn the mortal half of his body and stop his suffering as the Moirai snipped his thread and the Keres feast. Zeus is bringing his divine half to Olympus. They paused their song more out of acknowledgement than purpose. He’s a god and though not even Zeus holds power over Fate, the sisters are not rude or inconsiderate.

Their song begins anew. Clotho spins and Lachesis measures and Atropos cuts. They take their duty seriously, as it is their life. They do not and will never stop. There is no disappointment or anger in that: it is a fact. It is their life. Clotho spins with patience and earnest, Lachesis measures with care and impartiality, and Atropos snips the threads of life not with indifference or dispassion but with reverence and finality.

They sing of what was, what is, and what will be.

[Hercules on his Funeral Pyre, Elie-Honoré Montagny, French, active after 1819](https://artmuseum.princeton.edu/collections/objects/17246)

[Stele of Xanthippos on a klismos](https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/G_1805-0703-183)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The klismos (pl. klismoi) is a type of ancient Greek chair, with curved backrest and tapering, out-curved legs
> 
> Images:   
> Hercules on his Funeral Pyre, Elie-Honoré Montagny, French, active after 1819  
> https://artmuseum.princeton.edu/collections/objects/17246
> 
> Xanthippos (an Athenian politician) on a klismos   
> https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/G_1805-0703-183 
> 
> On Xanthippos: http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.04.0104%3Aalphabetic+letter%3DX%3Aentry+group%3D1%3Aentry%3Dxanthippus-bio-4


	4. Maritime Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on the butterfly markers, esp. for those reading other works of mine like The Demon Amy: while I use the pentagram in Amy's story to mark time/setting jumps, I'll be using the butterfly to denote POV shifts. It'll remain third person throughout, mostly third person close to Macaria/Makaria but also sometimes third person to Thanatos when with gods/goddesses or omniscient to highlight human reactions (esp. fear) of him. When third to neither, which won't be often at all, it'll likely be third person omniscient.

Macaria’s father is dead and it’s her mother’s fault. Her father is dead and leaves his family vulnerable while he is whisked away to a mountain so high the clouds always cover its inhabited summit.

Macaria runs through the Calydon Palace. Word spread quickly of strongman Heracles’s inability to take off a poisoned cloak and of the pyre no one would light to release him of his misery. The city’s fortified walls will be breached by anyone who wishes to take control or take revenge. With the violent and sudden death of Heracles, the people are dissociated with reality. Some are crying in the streets and screaming to the heavens. Many are cheering. Many more are confused and shocked, standing around or wandering aimlessly or asking the same questions.

Macaria is sprinting. Her chest heaves and burns. She bursts into her mother’s room. Deianira is already packed, and it’s then that Macaria understands: her mother knew.

“I had you and your siblings’ possessions taken to the ship, Ria,” Deianira says and orders men to take all of the chests left to the ship. She moves towards Macaria, who walks backward.

Now her chest haves for another reason. It’s as though Zeus’s lightning bolt was striking her now rather than her father minutes ago.

“ _You_ did this to us!” Macaria shouts. “It’s because of Iole, isn’t it? He was horrible, Mother, but you’ve condemned us.”

Macaria spins around and marches away. She knows she will be sent to the ship soon enough, but first she checks the library. She looks for all of her favorite books but finds only a few missing. She calls for a servant. A girl, Zoe, several years older than Macaria answers the call has her bring more books to the ship. She is crying as she picks out Macaria’s favorites and places them in a bag.

“Give the rest away,” Macaria says, her voice cracking. “I don’t want them to be burned.”

“Yes, Macaria,” says Zoe as Macaria leaves.

Her throat aches from holding down the growing lump. Her chest feels as though it is closing up as she sprints outside. The ocean salt gives the air taste and stings her watery eyes. The air is alive and sizzling from the aftereffects of Zeus’s lightning and energy of the chaos it has thrown the city into. She gulps down a sob, but it still escapes as a shaking breath.

Her city is in shambles. People and families are scrambling. They know what’s coming, though many remain steadfast in their new worship for Heracles. A group of men are already talking of building a temple.

Macaria storms over to them. They greet her graciously, even reverently. She’s the daughter of a god now.

“Stop it!” she shrieks. “You think you are free, or blessed? Why do you think your wives and children—your beloved leaders are running around? Crying? You talk like there will not be a reckoning! Heracles is gone! Gone! Who will protect you?”

“Run, Macaria,” says a young one, “and you’ll be abandoning your father. You should pray for his forgiveness.”

She has the mind to smack him, but another speaks up.

“Heracles and Zeus will protect us,” the other says. He is older with graying hair, a worn chiton, and calloused hands. “If we build a temple and pray, he’ll protect us.”

“You’re throwing your lives away,” she snarles. “You’re throwing the lives away of anyone you convince or coerce—”

“Ria!” A deep voice slices through the breezy air. He’s gasping for breath as he runs to her, looking both relieved and terrified.

The group of men walk away from Macaria as her brother Oneites approaches. However, Oneites runs up the steps of the palace to address everyone who can hear over the cacophony of bedlam. Macaria walks up a few steps to make sure she will he has to say. His face is stricken, sweaty with dried tears, and his chest heaves.

“King Eurystheus is will arrive sooner than we all thought!” he yells.

“Are you trying to cause more problems?” yells the young man who had insulted Macaria earlier.

“I’m trying to warn you!” Oneites retorts.

She walks up the rest of the steps to her brother, her father’s youngest son by their mother. “Why don’t you pray to our father?” she sneers down at the young man. His face flushes with anger, but Macaria takes her brothers arm and ignores him. “You’ll cause a panic.”

“They are already panicked,” he says. “Now they’ll leave faster.”

“Did you lie?”

Oneites looks at her, and she knows he didn’t. Terror has etched itself into his face, given him lines that he didn’t have before.

“Let’s go to the ship,” she says. “Things will be calmer once we’re abord. Come, Oneites.”

He nods and takes her hand. “Be careful,” he says and squeezes her hand.

“Avoid the city center,” she says, and they walk down the stairs and into the frenzy of bodies. She grips his hand tightly as people push her this way and that way, threatening to tear her away from him.

There are so many people moving in so many directions that it’s impossible to see anything but the sky above. She’s too afraid to lose Oneites amongst the crowd and become lost to a stampede to look back at the palace. She wants to walk among the homes and workshops one last time. She wants to run her hand over the stone and clay homes. She wants to shop at the local market, but instead she finds the local fresh fruits smooshed beneath her sandal, feels the juice between her toes.

As they near the ship, it grows until it looms over them. The crowd has grown thicker at the harbor, begging and pushing to be let on. People have commandeered other ships as guards and loyal warriors put their might into keeping Deianirea’s ship safe and untouched by anyone not of royal blood. Two break through the crowd, shoving and hitting with shield and sword until people give way. They lead Macaria and Oneites through the crowd to the ship. As the quartet approaches the ship, the people surge forward. Macaria and Oneites are shoved forward.

Macaria feels herself falling forward and it’s then that her fear becomes overwhelming: she is going to fall, the people are going to break through, and they will run over her until she is dead.

Except she doesn’t fall. She finds herself staring at the ground as though suspended.

“Macaria,” Oneites says.

He reaches around her and she jerks back to the present. She’s not dead and the crowd remains behind those loyal to her mother and her royal blood. An unfamiliar, gaunt man with a long, white beard inclines his head slightly, and she realizes he caught her.

In brushing off her chiton, Macaria breaks away from Oneites. He remains behind her, brushing against her back and arm.

“This is the messenger who warned us of the king,” Oneites says. “Thank you. What’s your name?”

“It’s not important,” says the man. Macaria cannot help but notice he has dark blonde hair that is whitening and curls at the ends and is brushed back with sweat. “You and your family really must hurry, though.”

“Did you travel just to warn us?” she asks.

Oneites shifts behind her, itching to run up into the ship, but has latched himself to her and refuses to leave her side.

“I was on my way here,” says the traveler irritably and pleads, “Please.”

Macaria refuses to look at the broken and lost and abandoned people being held back and walks onto the rickety gangway into the ship. When she steals a hurried glance back, she ends up lingering longer than intended. The man is gone.

“Come on, Macaria, hurry!” Oneites calls as he races further into the ship. “I’m going to find Mother!”

Macaria, though, does not dash through the ship. She walks up to the bow, the wind pulling at her hair veil so that it tightens around her neck and she looks out at the horrid scene. She nearly collapses. The shouting is so loud is hurts her ears. Parts of her city is one fire, flames swirling with the breeze. People are running around. Lines of carts filled with children and possessions file out of the city like hurried ants from its colony. She can see the palace has largely been left alone, and she thanks the gods. At least the people of the palace are safe, for now.

She turns away and wipes away the tears. She knows she won’t ever see her home again, but she cannot bear for this to be last image of her home she’ll have.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Thanatos stands by his sister Ker. Eight Keres stand around, each identical to the next so that if you didn’t know they were one and they were many, you might mistake them for doppelgangers. They stand in the hills of Calydon, overlooking the burning city, his sisters disappearing and reappearing as they come and go between the hills and the city.

There are not enough dead for all of his sisters to flood the crowds and bathe in their blood. At least not yet. For now, the Keres keep it at a minimal eight, rather than eight hundred or eight thousand. One goes out, then another, and comes back. They go beneath the people’s feet, into the fires, into the water, and into homes where the dead lay as they remove souls and cast them below the earth.

“When King Eurystheus comes, there will be so many gone,” Thanatos murmurs.

“Sentimental?” one of the Keres teases.

Another slaps his shoulder and grins from ear to ear sharkishly.

“Of course not,” he says, looking out over the crowds and the havoc and the rising smoke. It will only be a beacon for the king. His gaze is glued onto a single ship, though. “Those who remain will fight hard. They’re Heracles’s warriors, the strongest and thickest of all. They won’t know when to stop. Anyone in their path will be slaughtered. It won’t be just Calydon to suffer great loss.”

“You really think so?” a third chirps.

“I know so,” he says and looks meaningfully at his sisters. “I expect King Eurystheus’s men will be slowed and unable to reach Heracles’ family before they get to Athens.”

They grow giddy and boisterous, laughing and smiling and cheering. Though never fully satiated, they will return home satisfied before the next battle.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

The ship takes Macaria and her family down the Lycormas River to the gulfs. crawl forward until reaching the Gulf of Patrae, where the rowers take charge and propel them forward. They travel south to Athens. To King Demophon. It will take less than a day to reach him. Overcrowded and slowed by the weight and possessions and their dismemberment at Corinth, the air remains charged and frantic and the people, irritable and volatile.

Every royal gets seasick at one point or another. Her mother and eldest brother argue: Heracles promised him Iole. He could not take her for himself, so he would give her to his eldest. Deianira detests Iole, wants her thrown off the ship. Hyllus, however, is now in charge of the family. As much as he must respect their mother, he wants Iole, too. In the end, the consort is not thrown off the ship, but Macaria is sure to avoid both women when possible. Avoiding Iole and her mother would mean avoiding drama. Once Glenus confirms that they are safely ahead of Eurystheus and his men, she wants to be away from her family.

The ship is bustling with sailors and warriors. The crew is too big for the ship, making everywhere feel more cramped and everyone more irritable than usual for a sea voyage, but there is nothing that can be done down. Emergency escapes doesn’t lend itself to rationale or maximum capacity numbers.

Macaria’s glad not to run into her family as they reach the deck and up to the side of the ship. Her mother hasn’t come up to the deck the whole trip, and Uncle Iolaus keeps her company. He may be the only one who can save her from herself. Macaria’s brothers Oneites, Glenus, and Ctesippus offer help to the sailors but, not sailors themselves, are never given anything important or difficult to do. Hyllus spends his time with Iole, probably because he doesn’t trust their mother not to kill her as well.

Macaria finds the unfamiliar traveler while exploring the ship. She hadn’t known what became of him, and she cannot help the wave of relief that passes over her at the sight of him on the deck. Whoever he is, he’s among the men helping her family escape, among the men who are also escaping. He’s not working but instead eating some bread, so she approaches him.

His barley-colored hair is envy-worthy and has been tied back into a very small ponytail. She grew up spending all day with lemon out in the sun to try—and fail—to get her hair to look like that.

 _He must travel a lot_ , she surmises. 

“Hello,” Macaria greets, her voice deflated. She’s exhausted and it shows in the way she walks, talks, eats, even looks at people.

He offers a piece of his bread and she takes it despite not being hungry. It would be rude not to and he did save her. She stands beside him, looking out over the gulf. As she picks at the bread, she sees it’s different from the biscuits served to the crew. He must have had it with him.

“Thank you,” she says and nibbles at the bread. Though it’s tasteless—everything has been since they left Calydon—the bread has been baked well: crunchy and hard on the outside, soft and fluffy inside. It’s both comforting and a reminder, and the reminder that she won’t return home or see her cooks again poisons the comfort. “And thank you for before.”

“I’ve heard of you before,” he responds. He’s looking at her as though he has known her for many years and can guess how she is feeling even now.

“The daughter of Heracles,” Macaria says glumly.

“Your father _is_ Heracles. Someone like King Demophon will no doubt offer refuge,” he says, “but there are other stories. Your people are a reflection of your father. I don’t speak ill of the dead or the gods, but the stories go that such emphasis on fighting and war doesn’t come as naturally to you.”

Macaria can’t tell if he means it sardonically or not. She doesn’t really care.

“He’s gone,” she mutters. “I’ve seen what it does. It’s as much his own fault as my mother’s. If you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

He nods. Appreciative, Macaria gives him a feeble smile and he responds in turn. His eyes wrinkle at the corners, and he is so handsome even when sad it could make her sick. But she’s numb and no feeling of sickness can break through the cocoon she’s placed herself in.

His hand moves to hers. His hand is firm but soft, odd for a traveler. “You asked my name before,” he says. “You can call me Mors.”

“Is it really your name?” Macaria studies his face, but he gives no hint of mockery.

“One of many.”

Macaria has become as disassociated as her people. There is no energy left to pry, her curiosity is limited. She leaves it at that as the wind blows past and whips her dark hair around.

“Have you traveled by sea before?” Mors asks, putting the bread into his pack. 

“Yes, but not like this.”

The ocean waves roll under the ship, seeming to carry them down the coast. Yet, it’s not the wave that propel them forward but the rowers beneath the decks.

“We’re nearly to Corinth,” Mors says.

Beyond the ship is the gulf. Beyond the gulf are mountains that are steadily growing less hazy.

“Poseidon has been good to us,” Marcaria says. She is hollow but she can’t deny how lucky they have been with half a day’s head start on King Eurystheus. If not for Mors’s warning and Poseidon’s mercy, they would not be alive.

Mors doesn’t respond. He stares at the temples dedicated to the sea god that line the coast.

Movement in the water makes Macaria lean forward. “Look,” she says.

Dolphins bob up and down beside the ship, dancing through the water as gazelles and deer do through long grass. It’s a sign, enough to crack the numb armor Macaria has been wearing the last two hours.

“Seems he is on our side,” Mors murmurs.

Macaria grows somber. “Because of my father, no doubt,” she remarks. 

“Perhaps.” Mors’s knuckles brush her arm as he speaks. “Perhaps not. We don’t want to assume what a god is thinking.”

She grabs his arm to still him, to make him pay attention to her words. “It’s the only thing that makes sense, Mors.”

“Gods can have more than one reason for doing things, too.” Mors steps forward so that they stand flush against one another.

Macaria’s heart pounds against her chest bone like it’s trying to break free from a cage. She can’t force herself into regretting having allowed him to be close to her, but she isn’t sure it’s a sound idea. She doesn’t know him and there is no privacy on the ship. She decides against complicating things further and turns back to the sea.

Mors takes the hint and steps back.

Macaria picks at her nails. That was the first time she felt well and truly distracted, the first time she felt something besides anger and fear and numbness since her father’s death. He slipped past her armor, and she let him.

When they arrive at Corinth and disembark, Macaria loses Mors once again. This time she cannot help feeling slightly relieved. She needs to remained focus. She finds her brothers, first spotting Hyllus and Iole among the bustling throng.

“Where is Glenus?” she asks.

“Just come with us, Ria,” Hyllus says. Iole stands beside him. Her hair is tousled, and Hyllus looks far too arrogant and satisfied with himself. Iole is more beautiful than Deianira and Macaria combined with long, lightened hair that she refuses to cover with a veil, despite supposedly being in mourning for her ex-lover. The lack of privacy didn’t seem to have the same effect on them as it did on Macaria; they seem to revel in it, like it has set them both alight with a new glow and self-confidence.

Macaria scowls at them, venom dripping into her veins and half-blinding her.

Though Ctesippus is the most like their father in personality and looks, Hyllus embodies the great, arrogant, hypersexual warrior his father fashioned him into. His father’s son, Hyllus is tall, broad, and domineering. But what he often forgets is Macaria grew up the youngest after four boys, Hyllus having been a man by the time she was born. He may have seen her grow and fall numerous times, but he spent time telling her what to do while she listened and watched.

“I asked where Glenus is,” she snaps. Iole looks surprised and a vile satisfaction fills Macaria. “He is the least like father and therefore the most reasonable of you lot. If you won’t tell me, just say so, no need to pretend you care. I will find him myself, Hyllus.”

She marches off, pushing through the soldiers and sailors bustling about as they gather their things and file off the ship. She stops to ask a few of Glenus’s whereabouts and gets lucky on the fourth try.

“He’s already disembarked,” says a gruff sailor whose muscles are still quaking from the rowing. “He thought you were on land already.”

She thanks him and races off the ship, asking a few more if they have seen Glenus until finally she is pointed in the right direction. He is standing with Oneites several yards from their mother and Uncle Iolaus. She runs to him and hugs him.

“Thank the gods, you’re alright,” Glenus says, spinning her around in his strong arms. “I thought you’d disembarked already and when no one knew where you were, I was afraid you’d been lost at sea. The ship was so chaotic, it was impossible to keep track of everyone.”

“I’m fine,” she assures. “Have you seen the traveler, Mors?” she asks Oneites.

“Mors?” Glenus scoffs. “ _That’s_ what he said his name is?”

“No, I haven’t,” Oneites murmurs. “And no, I haven’t. Though with a name like that, I’m not sure I want to. Sounds ominous.”

“Don’t take it so seriously,” Glenus says, and Oneites rolls his eyes. “What you look for is what you’ll see.”

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t prepare or be aware,” Oneites mutters. “Enough bad has happened.”

“Ria,” Glenus says and nods towards the wagons.

Macaria considers for a moment bringing up how panicked Oneites was at the start, but Glenus puts an arm over her shoulders and they walk over to the wagons. Deianira and Iolaus are in a tented wagon. Deep, red-purple rings circle her mother’s eyes as though she’s been crying and not sleeping for days. If she knew what she was doing to Heracles, as all the rumors claim, then no doubt she was.

Macaria and Glenus climb into the back of the wagon, followed by Oneites. Iolaus climbs out to drive the wagon with another warrior. Then a Ctesippus saturated in sweat, and finally Hyllus and Iole enter the wagon. The wagon is full, and the silence weighs heavily in the hot, humid air. The canvas traps in the heat, their bodies only exacerbating it until it’s stifling hot, but the use of only canvas tents provides protection. No one is meant to know which tent they are in.

They travel outside of the city Corinth, knowing the royals will have no interest in protecting them against Eurystheus. King Demophon is their greatest ally and greatest hope. It takes half a day of traveling in dirt and on stone paths.

[Hometowns of Characters in the ](https://www.openculture.com/2017/02/a-handy-detailed-map-shows-the-hometowns-of-characters-in-the-iliad.html)_[Iliad](https://www.openculture.com/2017/02/a-handy-detailed-map-shows-the-hometowns-of-characters-in-the-iliad.html). _To find Calydon, follow the arrows belonging to Meges and Thoas (lefthand side). Calydon is in between where their arrows are pointing. Follow the arrow of Menestheus (below the box for Peneleus, Leitus, Archesileus, etc.) and you'll find Athens next to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Traveling in ancient Greece:
> 
> https://www.ancient.eu/article/605/travel-in-the-ancient-greek-world/
> 
> https://erenow.net/ancient/ancient-greece-and-rome-an-encyclopedia-for-students-4-volume-set/462.php
> 
> For a picture of an ancient greek (war)ship: https://www.wattpad.com/1014291673-the-goddess-of-blessed-death-maritime-escape 
> 
> Image: https://www.openculture.com/2017/02/a-handy-detailed-map-shows-the-hometowns-of-characters-in-the-iliad.html


	5. The Poison a Mother Drinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the numbers are still low, but honestly, thank you so much! Even just the ~50 reads makes me really happy!!

The walls of Athens exceed that of Calydon’s in both thickness and height. Soldiers with light spears in hand and short swords strapped to their sides walk along the tops, patrolling. When Macaria was young, she wondered if those who walked the top of the wall could touch the sky. Now she knows only the gods can do that. 

They leave the wagons outside of the walls. Men lead oxen carts and wagons carrying their chests, much of which was salvaged only because of Deianira’s foresight. Inside the city walls, Macaria feels safe for the first time since her father put on the poisoned cloak and his flesh burned and ripped and peeled off. She pushes the image from her mind and focuses on the city around her.

Athens lives like no city has nor will. Its people and foreigners crowd the markets, haggling for prices and possessions and produce. It smells of Arab spices and Greek fruits. Persian rugs hang from merchant carts and wagons set up as temporary shops. People murmur and gossip at the haggard sight of them. Bold merchants step forward to try and coerce them into buying food and water only for Iolaus or another solider to push them away. 

A week ago Heracles was suffering but alive. Less than a day ago he’d gone to Olympus. And now they stand before King Demophon’s citadel Acropolis on the streets of Athens, clothes soiled and torn. Royal blood stripped of their royal titles without their demigod Heracles to protect them not just with his hands but with his influence.

In a vibrant blue himation with a golden band sitting upon his dark locks, King Demophon meets them at the stairs of his Acropolis. As the son of the great Theseus and grandson of his dear grandmother Aethra, for whom he went to war to rescue from Troy, the king is an old warrior who sew his adolescence in war. His fame spread far and wide for being among those in the Trojan Horse. He walks down the stairs and though he moves with the grace of a royal, there is a certain awareness about him that keeps him on edge and prepared at all times. His eyes, sunken in and darkened as though he has seen too much in war and regrets too deeply in love.

At the top of the stairs, a blonde man steps out from behind guards and into the evening light. Macaria looks at Oneites but her brother isn’t paying attention, his eyes locked onto the approaching king.

Deianira steps forward to meet Demophon. They exchange whispers. Apprehension and dread drips down Macaria’s spine. Behind Demophon, Mors is gazing down at them in a fresh chiton pinned together by a golden pin shining under the amber and indigo sky. His eyes rank over the group until they find Macaria. He stands there among the soldiers without armor or weapons yet looking more deadly than any Athenian warrior, than even Demophon.

Macaria’s gaze snaps back to the king: _Did he send Mors?_

“Apollo has looked after you since you left his city. Come,” Demophon says to the travelers, the family of Heracles. “How could I turn away the family of the god who saved my father while he was in Hades? Come, there is someone you should meet. Welcome to Athena's city.”

Mors had disappeared from the top of the stairs. Macaria slipped through the group to Oneites.

“He’s here,” she whispers urgently. “Mors, I saw him.”

“Don’t be silly, there is no way he could have arrived here quicker than us,” Oneites says and walks faster to escape her before she can retort.

Scoffing, Macaria goes to Glenus, who stands beside Ctesippus. Oneites will see soon enough, she’s sure of it.

They are taken to the hall of the citadel where court convenes. Demophone sits on his throne, a golden slab of smooth stone. A consort sits beside him, three more behind and beside. His court of men is already gathered and sit on the circle of stairs that extend from the throne like a halo from a head. They scrutinize the group with a mixture of leers, judging glares and awe-filled gawking. Deianira leads the travelers through an opening in the stairs into the center of court where there are no stairs but a floor as smooth as Demophon’s throne. It all makes Macaria feel as though they are on trial rather than being saved.

“What’s going on, Demophon?” Deianira asks a little too politely, stepping forward and looking around with the disquiet and edginess of a caged animal.

“You’re welcome to sit,” Demophon says. He waves to the stairs around, much of the space open and becoming even more so as the councilmen shift closer to one another. Deianira doesn’t move.

Hyllus, however, walks away from the group and sits down. His mother whirls around with fury in her eyes. He’s ignoring her attempts at negotiation. He’s surrendering them all to Demophon in her eyes. Iole, of course, follows and when the couple look at the group intently, warriors begin to break off as slowly, the group sits among Demophon’s councilmen. There are murmurs as tense greetings and introductions are exchanged. Macaria remains with her mother, Uncle Iolaus, Glenus, Ctesspius, and the warriors most loyal to them. She shoots Oneites, who is introducing himself to a scowling councilman, a scathing glare before stepping forward.

“King Demophon,” Macaria says with as much pretensive gratitude and grace as she can muster. “There is something I would like to know before I sit.”

King Demophon grins broadly. His revel in satisfaction proves he knows something, perhaps something she doesn’t know—or perhaps something he knows she knows.

“There is a man who goes by Mors,” she tells the king, and a murmur breaks out among the council. She doesn’t have to look back to know her brothers are groaning or shaking their heads. “He helped us escape by warning us in time. I saw him when you greeted us. Was he an emissary sent by you?”

King Demophon stands so swiftly from his chair, Macaria flinches. By will alone, she roots herself to the stone floor and stands up straight.

“Mors, as Macaria calls him, is why I have brought you all here,” King Demophon addresses everyone. “He does not serve me. If anyone should be serving anyone, it should be the opposite.” More whispers ripple through the court. “By his request, I have not told anyone about it after he came to me. His nature is. . . irregular and he was not certain his appearance would be misconstrued as an ill omen. As for why he is here and who he is, he has asked to be able to explain that himself. However, please, let that come in time, my dear. There are more urgent matters to attend to. Deianira, come forward.”

Begrudgingly, Macaria moves to sit between Ctesspius and Glenus. Ctesspius looks like he would smile if the circumstances were different, his eyes sparking with amusement, and Glenus has his “Really?” expression out. She elbows both while sitting down and stares ahead.

“Sit by me,” King Demophon tells their mother.

Glenus reaches behind Macaria to grab Ctesspius’s arm to keep him from leaping to his feet. Pressed between them, she can feel they have gone as rigid as she has. The hall watches her mother silently. If a pebble dropped, it could be heard. It would echo.

Denianira’s footsteps are the only sound to fill the court hall. She sits beside Demophon. Ctesspius breaths deeply in and out through his nose. Macaria squeezes Glenus’s hand.

Their mother sits next to King Demophon at the forefront of his harem. There is a sickness flourishing in Macaria’s gut, a nausea that has taken root and blossoms like the first aconite to come from Cerberus when her father collected him for one of his labors. It is a poison their mother drinks for her children. A poison that will imprison her mother but free her children.

“Mors tells me that King Eurystheus should arrive within two days,” Demophon tells the hall. He lounges on his throne as though Denianira surrending herself to him was of little consequence but speaks with the self-assured, urgent command of a general and king. “Hyllus, step forward now. Acacius.”

Hyllus walks onto the flooring before the king. At the same time, a broad man with a sword strapped to his side crosses the hall from where stood by the hall entrance. His stride is longer than Hyllus’s and though further from the throne, he reaches the flooring first. Macaria cannot help but steal a glance at Iole and to her dreaded satisfaction, sees the lust pooling in Iole’s eyes.

“My commander-in-chief, Acacius,” King Demophon introduces and the two men greet one another with a handshake. “Hyllus, I wish for you and your brothers to work closely with our men. Acacius and his warriors can act as your guides. As for your sisters. . .,” King Demophon says with a wave and serving girls rush forward from somewhere hidden, “these servants will be at your disposal. Unfortunately, I have no wife nor daughter to guide you, but my women are also here should you need them.”

Macaria forces a look of gratitude on her face, though she puts in little effort to cover how fake it is. _His women._ She wants to spit at those words, seeing her mother sitting among “his women.” _She is and always will be a queen._ Not some noblewoman concubine.

“I expect you all are very tired after such trying times,” King Demophon says as though he almost means it sincerely. “Please, rest. My men and servants will show you to your rooms.”

The serving girls attach themselves to their assigned ladies and soldiers stride to stand beside Macaria’s brothers. As each group forms, one-by-one, they bow and leave the hall. They are led back through the open center and out to the front.

“What’s your name?” asks Macaria.

“I am called Pelagia.”

Instead of walking down the stairs back towards the city, the children of Heracles are taken around to a side path. Macaria edges closer to Glenus, her new handmaid moving with her. Ahead and slightly down the back of the hill’s slope stand the palace residences, a wall of rocks wrapping around.

As they walk further down the path, Pelagia strays away from the rest, then she takes a sharp turn and walks in the opposite direction of Macaria’s family.

“Where are taking me?” Macaria demands, looking back. Her eyes lock with Glenus’s, but Ctesspius says something and Glenus turns away.

“Your rooms, of course,” says the girl. She is older and worn by work, but it lends her a certain strength missing in younger servants. She speaks with certainty. “You will be by your mother.”

“By the _harem_?”

“No, please don’t mistake,” says the servant hurriedly. “I didn’t tell you this, but I believe King Demophon may be looking to marry your mother, but he must first win the council over as well. You are both given private quarters, separate from the others. The, um, other ladies of the house have private rooms but still share spaces.”

“So she will still be given the respect of a queen?”

“She will be given greater respect than other women, but as you know, she is not yet Queen of Athens.”

“I understand,” Macaria says glumly.

Pelagia stops abruptly. Mors languidly paces before two rooms. He looks royal in bright, clean linen, even with dirty skin and hair; it makes him look like a well-traveled royal. He stops when he hears them approach. Macaria moves to meet him half-way.

“Good day,” she says politely.

Mors smiles. “I’d rather go back to how it was before, without all the formality, if you don’t mind,” he says. She hesitates, and he adds, “After the king’s speech, I can imagine you have some questions?”

“Why didn’t you say you were Athenian? Why keep it secret?” Macaria asks so quickly her words blend together, making Pelagia’s eyes widen. “Wouldn’t it have helped? And how can you be ranked higher than a king? You must be a relative, but you can’t possibly be older than the king.”

“I don’t see how it would have helped,” he says. “People would have made a big deal about it if I revealed my heritage. It would have been an unnecessary distraction.”

“Yes, I guess you’re right.”

Mors glances at Pelagia, who keeps her gaze on the ground. “May I see you again?”

“I would like that,” Macaria says.

Mors dips his head and walks away. Pelagia steps to the side, away from Mors, and darts up to Macaria.

“I do not wish to cause you troubles,” Pelagia whispers once Mors has walked a sufficient amount away, “but you must know that I’m not certain he is Athenian. I have never seen him before. And I only heard of his existence three days ago. One of the king’s serving boys, you see, he saw Mors petition for the king’s presence, but the strange thing is, Mors seemed to come from nowhere and he would only talk with the king in private. Even the boy, a mere slave, was not allowed.”

Mors’s figure is a slim stick, half cut off by the wall of rocks, from far off. His hair catches the sunlight, gleaming, before he disappears into the palace.

“None of the servants attend him, he interacts with no one else besides the king. . . and now you.”

“You mean to say I should be careful.”

Pelagia looks at Macaria with the same worry her mother and nurse maid would look at her with when she got into trouble as a child. She places a hand on Pelagia’s shoulder in reassurance.

“How about a tour?” she asks to distract the older woman.

“Certainly,” acquiesces Pelagia. She maintains an undernote of concern while showing Macaria her new bedroom and her sitting areas, one private indoors and the other open-air and shared with her mother.

 _Mors is back_ , Macaria marvels mentally.

Her mind drifts to Mors and what Pelagia told her during the mini tour and while she unpacks with Pelagia. Suddenly she stops.

“Pelagia, when did you say he arrived?” Macaria asks. “Mors.”

“I think less than a week ago,” says Pelagia. She holds onto the linen in her hands tightly.

“He couldn’t be from Tiryns, could he?”

Pelagia pales. “I think it best to talk to the king,” she murmurs, stricken.

“Eurystheus would have known my father was suffering,” Macaria thought aloud, shifting on her feet. “Perhaps he sent a man ahead. Mors saw we were leaving, travelled with us, but how could he have known we would go to King Demophon? He said Mors had approached him before, but he didn’t say when. It could have been about three days ago, just before everything happened. But that must be impossible to have traveled so quickly from Athens to Calydon unless he traveled with help. Perhaps he paid to for passage on a ship or cart. He must have. He did arrive just as we were leaving.”

“He’s a traitor, a liar, then.” She gently places down Macaria’s clothes before taking Macaria’s hands in hers. They tremble. “Please, tell our king. Please. He must listen to you and your brothers.”

“He might listen to my brothers, but they don’t listen to me, which makes it unlikely he will.” Macaria took her hands from Pelagia. “I will try, but I can’t say if I’ll succeed. You will have to wish me luck.”

“I hope Fate should side with us.”

Macaria agreed. “There is no point in unpacking anymore yet,” she says, her clothes neatly folded and organized in new chests by Pelagia. “We’ll have to go before the council, I think.”

Pelagia opened her mouth, then closed it, torn.

Macaria held out her hand for Pelagia to take it. “I won’t give you or the boy away. I will inquire into Mors and hopefully from there, King Demophon will see it for himself.”

Relief washes over Pelagia as she nods with a little less fear. “Thank you,” she says in earnest.

“Let’s go now,” Macaria speaks with a definitiveness that carries them both out of her rooms and down the path. Pelagia follows on her heels. All the way to the council hall, Macaria curses herself for being as blinded by her looks as her father and Hyllus.

There is a councilman standing on the floor, talking of the market to King Demophon, when Macaria and Pelagia walk in. Men stand, grumbling at the sight of her. It spurs Macaria forward. Pelagia melts into the background.

Denianira remains at King Demophon’s side. His other women stand behind the throne, muttering amongst themselves. They have not been here a day and her mother has made enemies and she is about to accuse a man of treason.

“I have finished unpacking,” Macaria announces. “I would like to inquire as to when I may discuss Mors with you, King Demophon.”

“Lovesickness will not make time go by any faster, my dear,” Demophon replies, making the men chortle. He takes a nectarine from a platter of fruit and bites into it.

Macaria’s anger helps her to think quicker even as her mind reels. “Surely you of all would understand,” she says quietly. Demophon stops moving the fruit around in his hand, his large frame stilling. “Please,” Macaria adds.

“You don’t have to worry about him turning into an almond tree,” Demophon says. “I will speak to you about him later. Tomorrow. There’s too much to figure out today.” When Macaria opens her mouth, he says firmly, “Later, princess. Until then, I am sure he will answer whatever questions you have about him better than I. You will probably find him in Athena’s temple.”

With no other choice, Macaria glances once more at her mother. Denianira maintains her regal elegance, dignified before the whispering consorts. Macaria turns and leaves with Pelagia.

“It seems too ironic to find someone potentially plotting to help wage war on Athens in Athena’s Temple,” Macaria says as they stalk through the palace center. The sky above is a cloudless pale blue that matches the pool.

“Are you going to confront him?” Pelagia says, alarmed. Her brown eyes are wide.

“No, I don’t want him to suspect anything,” Macaria says and her stomach growls. She flashes Pelagia a grin. “I’ll ask him to eat with me and if everyone thinks I am lovesick, then so I shall be.”

Pelagia nods, gulping. “I shall make sure everything is prepared for lunch,” she says and runs off.

Macaria goes to the temple, having seen where it was on her way up to the hall. She slows before entering the temple, smoothing her linen and lifting her chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description of the Parthenon - https://www.reed.edu/humanities/110Tech/Parthenon.html
> 
> On the Acropolis of Athens - official website: https://www.theacropolismuseum.gr/en
> 
> UNESCO World Heritage: https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/404/
> 
> Other sources:  
> http://odysseus.culture.gr/h/3/eh351.jsp?obj_id=2384
> 
> https://www.acropolisofathens.gr/aoa/


	6. Eating Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't going to post this so close to posting the last chapter, but after the day America has had, I figured AO3 could provide an escape/community for some and maybe me posting something could, too. If anyone happens to be in D.C., I hope you and your family and friends are safe. 
> 
> For words and phrases marked with an asterisks (*) and general historical notes/my approach to the story as it currently is, please see end notes :)
> 
> If you find the use of asterisks distracting, lmk. Even if it's fine with everyone, if I end up with a lot of notes, I don't want to be using more than 5 asterisks. If this happens, I'll switch to parenthetical numbers; i.e. (1), (2), etc.

Incense assaults Macaria, tickling her nose. She rubs it to keep from sneezing. Mors is muttering under his breath to the great statue of Athena that stands in the middle of the temple. Offerings of food and herbs and flowers rest at the goddess’s feet. Draped in bronze and gold robes and armor, Athena’s hair is golden, and she wears her golden breastplates and helmet-crown. Her spear rests against the crook of her ivory arm and held up by one of the serpents around her waist, and she carries with her the shield she wore in combat against the Amazons. The two serpents wrapped around her waist cinch her peplos. Their eyes follow visitors and worshipers as though ready to strike. In her right-hand palm stands the Goddess of Victory, Nike, for winged victory follows where Athena leads.

Mors pauses, then turns around. “Macaria,” he greets.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” she says and walks to stand before the goddess. “Please continue.” Without an offering, she feels ignorant and offensive. Silently, she prays to Athena to be merciful and understanding. She begs for wisdom.

Mors takes a few steps backwards, and Macaria stops praying, too.

“If you are not busy right now, I am famished and would like to know if you’re willing to join me,” she says.

Mors gawks. “Uh, together?” he asks.

Men and women don’t eat together. Macaria’s face flushes. She was too focused on getting to the bottom of the mystery to fully realize how she would sound. Of course, she knew how it sounded, and yet she did not _know_ how _she_ sounded until _she_ said it.

“Well?” she asks, doing her best to keep up the façade despite the burning in her cheeks and ears, the blood rushing to her skin down her neck and chest. “It’s not as though I am inviting myself for dinner.” _I am not a prostitute for some symposium._

“You’re very blunt,” Mors says and once again, Macaria cannot tell if he is mocking her or not. It irks her. “I would like the company.”

“Good,” she says though gritted teeth and walks up to him so they stand inches apart. “Where to?”

His eyes, darkened, take on a shade of bronze. “I have been eating out publicly,” he says.

Macaria hesitates. Mors frowns. She purses her lips. _Is he really saying he doesn’t have anywhere to stay here?_ She supposes eating in her rooms would be better for her in that she would feel somewhat less intimidated. Her mind is racing to come up with something when what he says next catches her off guard. 

“You’re not betrothed,” he says.

“He died,” she replies honestly. “He was a friend of my father’s, that’s all I knew.”

“There’s no other?” His head tilts to the side.

“No,” she says and gulps. “As you must know, my father is in Olympus. The man I was going to marry died shortly before. . . everything happened. He was helping my father on one of his many quests.”

Mors steps back solemnly. “Yes.” He talks as though he knows, as though it is a vague memory of his own, and it only makes Macaria all the more suspicious—and desperate.

“I didn’t know him as a person,” Macaria forces the words out as though they are stuck like peanut butter to the top of her mouth, “or as a man.”

“Yes,” Mors says, a strain in his voice.

Doe-eyed, Macaria steps up to him, and he drinks her in. As he drinks, she follows. The barley will be sweet, she’s sure of it.

“Shall we eat?” she asks.

“Yes,” he breathes.

Macaria leads the way out of the Parthenon. Mors walking so close to her their arms brush and send tingles down to her fingertips. They go around the temple to the open space behind it, where a view of Athens and the gulf stretch before them. Homes and bustling markets look like toys that shrink in size the closer they get to the water.

“Do you mind if we eat outside?” she asks.

“We’ll be near the entrance and pathway. You don’t mind being seen?”

Macaria offers a terse, thin smile. “It’s only lunch.”

Pelagia comes around the corner with another maid, both carrying food, drink, and a blanket. They lay it out before Macaria and Mors picnic-style. Macaria nods to Pelagia, and the maids step back. Macaria sips from the cup of wine, thinking and taking a moment to collect and calculate.

“So, did you grow up here in Athens?” Macaria asks.

“No, I confess I am not Athenian.”

“Oh?” Macaria’s heart speeds up, and she grips her cup. She looks ahead to try to hide whatever expression might give her away.

“I come from the west,” Mors says. 

“Where did you learn Greek?”

“I am from the west, but I grew up in Sparta. I was a sailor. Gadira to Tartessus. Aegeans came for trade. I returned with them and made my way to Sparta, where I joined the hoplite.”

Mors’s fair, thin frame, short blonde ponytail, and hairless, boyish demeanor differs greatly from what she has heard of those west and what she knows of Spartans. If Spartans are like Ares, Mors is like Apollo. Still, if he was accustomed to Sparta, she could not play the part of the modest Athenian woman*.

 _Good_ , she thought. With a father like Heracles and the second youngest among four boys, this would be easier than playing it meek.

“And what brought you to Athens?”

“I wasn’t, am not very strong,” Mors says, “but they told me I was blessed by Hermes and was made a messenger. I eventually became an envoy. It was through those duties that I came here.”

Simmering in growing vexation, Macaria eats her bread and cheese, smiling unctuously when he looks at her. She has grown up hearing more outlandish stories and with that, she has found it easier to decipher when one is lying and when one is telling the truth. And Mors is most definitely lying. He doesn’t speak with enough personal details or feelings on the matter, and traveling so much would have to bring out more distinctive if not intense particulars. It’s not as though he is a great traveler lost at sea with epics written down to commemorate his awe-inspiring deeds. The only thing astounding is the hubris with which he made up his tales.

“Hm, yes, my family and I owe you our lives,” Macaria says. “You did save us.” She reaches over and places her hand over his; it has grown warm under the sun. “How did you know?”

“King Demophon sent me.”

“No, I mean, it really was as though the Fates themselves came down to have you there just when my family and I were facing insurmountable odds.”

Mors blinks, an awareness passing over his waxy features, glowing with the sunlight, and Macaria curses herself. Her tone was too sarcastic.

Mors leans forwards and whispers, “Do you think I am trying to start a war?”

“No!” Macaria blurts out. Afraid she might say something else, she picks up one of the eggs.

“But you don’t think I’m loyal.”

Eating, Macaria doesn’t answer. A hand hovers over the crook where her neck curves into her shoulder. The touch is a mere graze, yet she shivers. Jerking back, her eyes meet Mors’s. His shine like amber in the light. They are daring her to deny his accusation. He’s right; she cannot. Her voice is caught like a stone in her throat, unable to be swallowed down and unable to be spat out. Unwilling to simply cave to his clutches, Macaria shifts to move his hand away from her neck, fearful he might grab her.

 _He could strangle me_ , she thinks. He won’t, she knows, but that doesn’t change the fact that he could kill her with his hands if he wanted. He has something Spartan men don’t have, a power that makes physical strength frivolous.

Then, his hand moves to between her shoulder blades. “I’ve told you what I can,” he murmurs.

“Why only that?” Macaria leans in.

Mors leans back. Determination flashes in Macaria’s eyes and amusement in Mors’s.

“You play,” she accuses.

“It’s difficult not to with one so lovely.”

“ _Don’t_ distract. I want to know why.”

“And I won’t tell you _yet_.”

“Did you know that mystery is not only unbecoming but also unattractive?”

“Oh, really? First time I’ve heard.”

Macaria places her palm over Mors’s cheek. “Yes, but without family ties and titles, you may find yourself as little more than a plaything for any man or woman without your Spartan army to race around for. You’ll be their little rabbit, a scampering plaything.”

Mors traps Macaria’s hand in his and shifts to move his legs under himself, kneeling over her. She cannot help but tug to slip away, but the more she tugs, the tighter he holds and the closer he brings her to him. She is not afraid of him, not entirely, for Mors doesn’t carry himself as a man desiring destruction but rather as something of a more subtle and gentler nature and far more eminent. No, she is afraid of what temptation she is provoking, something looking for an excuse to release.

“I don’t need family ties or titles,” he says, and it is more than a promise: it’s fact. It’s life.

“Impossible,” Macaria scoffs. “ _Especially_ as a foreigner.”

“I may not have been born in Athens or Sparta or Corinth, but I am still Greek, my dear. Perhaps even more Greek than you. I am, after all, as you have inferred, not unlike the most beautiful of us.”

“Arrogance is even less alluring on you.”

“And yet you remain.”

Macaria dodges the remark. “Beauty does not equate to Greek or Calydonian or Athenian or Spartan,” she quips.

“It certainly helps while it lasts,” Mors says as he runs his long, bony fingers down the side of Macaria’s face, stopping below her jaw and nudging her chin up.

“Nothing lasts.”

“I of all would know,” he says and kisses her gently.

Mors kisses like Achlys, or Sadness, might. Like it is ephemeral. Like it is the last cup of wine to be had, drinking slowly, tasting each sip. Like it is the last sunset to look upon before the world goes dark and he must take in each stroke of gold over an indigo sky, each magenta and violet cloud, the ocean’s reflection as its rage calms with the coming of night, and the fugitive, sinking sun before the world’s light is blown out. Macaria succumbs. She is an outpouring of the wine, an explosion of violet and cerise and apricot and marigold across the clouds and sky, an overflowing torrent of the ocean.

Mors breaks for air only to swoop down again, grinning like a hawk who has homed in on his prey, and Macaria jerks back. Mors, taken aback, stretches his arms behind him and sits back.

“It would seem I am out of practice,” he murmurs mockingly.

“No—no—I—” Macaria stands. She spots Peraglia. Her expression is not one of surprise but of severity. Macaria lets go of a breath. “I’d like to walk,” she recovers.

Mors stands, moving to hold her, and Macaria steps sideways as though she had not even noticed.

“Pelagia,” she calls for her maid to follow, not that she needs to be told, and leaves the picnic. Mors walks by her side, the other maid cleaning up once they are several paces away. “Is the ocean very far?” she asks Mors.

“An hour’s walk,” he says skeptically. “You’re very relaxed.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not worried?”

“I have you.”

Mors’s eyes narrow as though he is deciphering a riddle. “I understand you don’t trust me, but surely you’re not going to test Fate.” He sighs, and the perplexity melts away to a tired irritation. “I’m not going to be the one to tell you how to get there or go with you.”

“Who says I need a man to go? I know how to fight and swim as well as the next man. The only difference is how much I can lift and how far I can throw.”

“In certain circumstances, that is the difference between life and death.”

“So you like your women bold only in bed?”

“I like women who have common logic and so know when to be bold.”

“And I like men who don’t assume. Are you coming or not? I’ll go either way.”

In an unspoken response, Mors stands and holds out his hand to help Macaria to her feet. She should have Pelagia fetch one of her brothers to chaperon. However, her the clothes she wore were plain enough to help her, someone largely unknown to Athenians, go unnoticed.

“Are you well received by the people here?” she asks Mors.

“I can’t really say,” he says. “I don’t venture out much into the city.”

Macaria then asks Pelagia to fetch her a very simple epiblema**. The serving woman runs off, soon returning with a colorless piece of linen and a veil. It would label her as a _man’s_ , however, and Macaria has no interest in being seen as a something belonging to Mors. It would also label her status, and Macaria wishes to see the city and ocean as a local. She refuses the veil, so Pelagia helps her mistress to wrap only the shawl around herself.

“Watch from a distance,” Macaria whispers to Pelagia. It’s inevitable for them to leave with a chaperone, but if Macaria brings along one of her brothers, there will be no privacy. At least with Pelagia, who has to listen to orders, Macaria can feel as though she can talk freely, even if it’s an illusion.

Pelagia nods. “Be careful, my lady,” she says. “Please. In Athens, without your veil*** . . ..”

Macaria puts a hand on Pelagia’s arm. “I understand,” she says. But she’s used to life under Herakles, where men will yell but never act on their calling. She wasn’t worried, especially with a man at her side.

As soon as Macaria is ready, Mors returns to her side and together they go through the citadel. When they cross through the white and gray marble Propylaea, pass the Temple of Athena Nike and guardhouse, and down the zigzag path****, the guards casting questioning glances grouping together and whispering once the pair pass them. No doubt a patrolman will alert her mother, and another will follow from a distance as soon as the two are far enough away to not see the commotion that follows a single woman, veil-lessly walking beside a single, older man out of the privacy of the Acropolis.

[Rendition of the ancient Athena Parthenos](https://www.history.com/topics/ancient-greece/parthenon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *http://www.unmappedmag.com/issue-40/sex-and-marriage-in-ancient-greece/
> 
> **epiblema = comparable to a modern shawl, a piece of cloth worn over peplos or chiton, usually worn by women (I think)  
> Source: https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/grdr/hd_grdr.htm
> 
> ***“While such attempts at greater social and political parity very likely contributed to more widespread use of the veil, the increased concern about female sexual fidelity created by democratic reforms — especially Pericles’ citizenship law of 451/0 — also undoubtedly promoted the growing frequency of veiling in democratic Athens.” (source: https://bmcr.brynmawr.edu/2004/2004.06.09/)  
> Additional info: https://www.princeton.edu/~pswpc/pdfs/scheidel/050603.pdf
> 
> ****The architect of the Parthenon was Mnesikles and the sculpture Phidias, who I believe helped to popularize or was a catalyst for Classical Greek design (5th cent., under statesman Pericles). The zigzag pathway was replaced with stairs with the addition of the Buelé Gate  
> after the Herulian invasion (267 CE) for defense. I believe Demophon was king of Athens following the legendary Trojan War, having fought in them, which was dated 1260 BC - 1180 BC, according to Greek authors. Though technically the Acropolis citadel as it’s known now would have been built much later (5th cent. as noted above), it’s such a staple that I wanted to include it. I’m writing this story less to be super authentic to any one time period and more so about exploring themes within the legends and mythoreligion. I wanted to include the Parthenon, so I decided to try to follow the earliest version I could find info on. My research was somewhat limited by time, so apologies to anyone who knows more about it than me; feel free to comment on what you all know or love about ancient Greece and your favorite parts/facts on the myths! (P.S. I’m very behind on Lore Olympus—please no spoilers!) Sources:  
> The official website: http://www.akropolis.gr/en/  
> Some info: https://www.jstor.org/stable/297624?seq=1
> 
>   
> Image: rendition of the Athena's statue (Athena Parthenos)  
> Background: https://www.ancient.eu/article/785/athena-parthenos-by-phidias/  
> Source: https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.history.com/.amp/topics/ancient-greece/parthenon
> 
> I'm not trying to be super authentic (at least not in this draft) given I'm more focused on Macaria/Makaria herself, but I do understand that not picking a specific time period could in some people's opinion actually mitigate my exploration of gender issues by sort of portraying ancient Greek times as pan-ancient Greece regardless of changes across times. I don't want to do that but as someone who's not an expert and still in school, I can/will only do so much (as of rn). So, I will also try to include additional research I've found while writing, whether they feed directly into my story or not (see above sources)


	7. To Be Born Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Background info./Historical research up here in the notes section, feel free to skip to the chapter itself: 
> 
> Did more research on veils in ancient Greece and found that veils were worn by most women, particularly elite and married/betrothed women, and from the scholarship I've read, there is a whole history behind the wearing of the veil and debates to be had about them. It's not shown in much art in order to show off the person's "womanly beauty," if you will; however, there is something called "the veil gesture" that can be found in the art to show off/celebrate the woman's beauty while also acknowledging that she would have had a veil on if it were in real life. The debate is on where the line between "censoring and controlling the women" and "the women use it to express themselves and can use it as a tool to assert themselves" falls. A couple articles I found compared them to the Islamic clothing when it comes to this debate, but also in how they were worn and looked (at least one of them should be among the sources I put in the last chapter's notes). One was comparing them to Muslim veil/hijab types from the shayla to the niqab (please check out the link below for accurate representations of what these are)--there are of course major differences, though, so I wouldn't go around comparing the two types of fashion. *Also, a couple of the articles I read weren't scholarly so I can't promise this comparison is actually correct; if you're more informed on that, feel free to educate the rest of us plebians with some sources.* 
> 
> For more on Muslim veils and hijab types, here's a cute, informative guide: http://istizada.com/muslim-veil-and-hijab-types-a-complete-guide/
> 
> Though this part of ancient Greece could make them seem more modest, there are instances in which ancient Greek women would sometimes wear their veil but then also, say, a peplos that accentuates and compliments/accentuates their body by choosing to wear one of thinner material. Also, footwear was often skipped entirely and it was normal to be nakey with those of the same binary/cisgender (don't know enough about non-binary representation in ancient Greece to make a comment on that). And homosexuality among men and naked wrestling and (older) picking up younger guys at what was essentially the gym was all normal, so all the haters might as well just embrace The Song of Achilles and move on lol Basically, all this research has been super fun, highly recommend if you're interested in this sort of stuff! I study premodern Japan, so if you are into this stuff on a global level, I recommend looking into the history of kabuki, particularly with wakashū, or the origins of the kami (Japanese indigenous deity) Inari. For reading, a great start is The Great Mirror of Male Love (warning: idk about the author himself, but the narrator is misogynistic). If you have any recommendations for me, LMK! 
> 
> ~^.^~ MB

Panthenaic Way goes through the city, taking its travelers to and from the sea and the Acropolis. It carries them through the green bushes, through red and off-white houses and the temples, one long and the round tholos, and into the agora, where shops are set up and Athenians haggle with the local and traveling merchants.

Mors and Macaria walk along Panthenaic Way towards the city and away from the rocky hill. From up high, the village is a small body of red-brown and white and thatched rooves. Green bushes, yellow and sage grasses, beige sand and tawny dirt, and white stones wash over the hill and are spotted throughout the city. The homes and temples and bathhouses grow as Macaria and Mors walk towards the market.

“Do you often walk?” Mors asks. It doesn’t go over Macaria’s head that even in asking about her past or her habits, he’d careful not to bring up Calydon after the week she’s had.

“Yes, I walked a lot with my mother or one of my brothers,” she says. “Sometimes even with my father, if he was home.” She adds under her breath, “which was rare.”

“Really?” he asks in pseudo surprise.

Macaria casts him a suspicious glance as they walk along, nearing the city. “Yes,” she murmurs. The few rows of homes nearest to the Acropolis are two-story, many with their own temples. “Men flaunt whatever they can. It’s how they cement their status among one another, but they need us to get there. Without marriages, where would they be? Without my mother, would my father still have become a god?”

“My sister is strong as a fleet of men, in my opinion. She’s a thousand in one. Man fear her.”

Macaria suppresses a smile. He could just be another who knows pretty words, especially as pretty as he is—but they were very pretty words.

“No man _truly_ fears women,” she says bitterly. “Just loss of power.”

Mors is quiet. He gazes down the path, where tents and wagons are set up for bartering in the distance. “Do you want to go around?” he asks.

“No,” Macaria says. “I enjoy markets.” Reading between his lines, she adds, “I can take care of myself. My father made sure of that.”

Mors’s gaze lingers on the shapes ahead as the tents and villagers and merchants slowly grow in size. As they walk along towards the market, the homes steadily grow smaller but not so small as the ones on the outskirts which Macaria can only see from a vantage point on the Acropolis where there are yards and space for animals and crops.

A man walks buy, looking Macaria up and down. She glares at him openly, but it’s not until the man’s eyes land on Mors that he is sent scuttling off like a beaten dog.

“What about your father?” she asks, irked but hoping to catch Mors off guard. “Who was he?”

“Parents are their children’s foundations. My parents were no different, except that it was much more literal. They were powerful, even necessary, but their village was small before I was born. They helped to build it from nothing after a war had threatened to destroy it. Some were ostracized, my family and I were among them.”

“Why?”

“We were different. Our leaders, too, feared their own loss of power.”

“It’s sounds as though there were quite a few of you who were cast out. You didn’t band together and fight?”

“We’ve found that making our own community is better than being stuck in one that cannot see our strengths.”

“You rebuilt an entire village, then? But then, how did you end up in Sparta? How are you related to King Demophon?” Once again, trumpets and horns sound off in the back of her mind. Something isn’t lining up.

“We found land suitable to our own needs and wants, made it our own. It is far off from others and yet it has served as a resting place for many travelers. Our leader, who was thought to be weak, had turned out to be unusually shrewd and guile. People need his help, even if they don’t like him. We are the only stop for many miles, an oasis for some. As for the rest, I told you already. The story is the same, but with more pretext. We are not related biologically but politically. Like everyone else, Demophon needs us. All kings rely on the small people. Without our support, they have nothing. I represent my home to Demophon. He won’t risk severing our ties. It would mean his end.”

They’ve reached the Agora of Athens, so Macaria lets the topic fizzle out among the hustle and bustle of the market. Mors is far more powerful than she thought, if what he says is to be believed. He carries himself like a god, and yet even with his fair complexion, he can blend into the crowd around them.

People, wagons, and tents are packed into this quadrangle at the center of the city. Permanent shops are set up around the perimeter. The marketplace is so crowded everyone is bumping into someone. The smell of herbs and the sea and cooking meat and body odor fills the air.

Macaria spots a vendor of jewelry and starts towards it. Gold, silver, bronze, lapis lazuli, glass, and beads weaves into necklaces, bracelets, rings, earrings, and pendants as flowers, figures of legendary figures and gods, and various animals. The merchant holds up a golden necklace, offering her a price in a thick accent and promising her it will make her even more beautiful than she already is, but Macaria shakes her head. He immediately picks up another piece, only for a stranger to step up next to her.

“This one for the lady,” says the man, pointing to earrings of the knot of Herakles. Macaria’s stomach sinks. “Have you heard? His family have taken refuge here. You do not look Athenian. Where have you come from, my dear?”

Macaria doesn’t reply out of initial shock that someone would dare to bother her. The man takes her stunned silence as an opportunity to start haggling with the merchant. There is a brush against her elbow from Mors: He is there, should she need it.

“I buy my own jewelry, thank you,” Macaria says. The merchant and village man stare at her. The village man wears neat, fine clothing, but lacks the way royalty and those directly around them are trained to hold themselves. His inability to spot such training in herself tells her he is well-off but bottom-rung elite. Perhaps the son of a local merchant, perhaps a merchant himself.

“No, I insist,” he says, not looking at her. “For the lady, then. Here.” He holds out the money to the merchant.

Macaria turns to walk away when the man grabs her arm. He holds out the gold earrings with his free hand. She may not be Athenian, but she recognizes the gesture—and she has no interest in being bought.

“You are very beautiful,” he says as though that will make her take his “gift.”

Macaria jerks her arm away. “Then I’m in no need of your earrings,” she says. “Good day.” Once again, she turns and walks away. Mors steps closer to her side as they continue through the market. This time she doesn’t stop, this time she notices the male ogling that lingers and leers. This time she feels torn about Mors’s presence: necessary protection and an unwanted reminder.

“He’s following,” Mors murmurs.

Macaria stops at a linen wagon-shop to steal a side glance in the man’s direction. Sure enough, he stops and turns to an herb shop. Macaria’s teeth grind.

_Just one good day, is it really too much to ask for?_

“Do you want to buy a veil?” Mors asks.

“No, I want him to leave me alone,” she hisses, pushing through the crowd.

“This way,” Mors says. He can see above heads she cannot and leads her through the crowd. When people begin shoving in between them, Macaria grabs his wrist. He slips it through her grip to take her hand. Golden hair gleams against the late afternoon sunlight as much as the gold the merchants sell. It is so mesmerizing in its rarity that Macaria misses when Mors pulls her around the corner of the shops, jerking her to the side so suddenly she loses her footing and crashes into him.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, taking her hand out of his.

Mors lets go but his gaze is undeterred to the point that Macaria turns her back on him, checking if the creeper has managed to follow. Mors checks with her. People come and go from the agora, but he is nowhere to be seen. Macaria leans back against the shop’s plaster wall.

Mors watches her. Golden hair, marble skin, sunken-in cheeks and eyes. He looks aged and yet youthful, like a young man who has lived a thousand lives. He is right; he is different.

Macaria’s hand goes to his neck, guiding him to her, and they kiss in their partially concealed alley way. The shade cools the air but as they draw close, body heat presses against the other. Macaria’s hands move to his hollow cheeks, she can feel the bones, the muscle beneath the skin as it moves with her.

She’s torn away abruptly and immediately feels embarrassed, foolish, and angry towards Mors, only to realize it wasn’t him who broke the kiss.

“If you can service him, you can service me, girl,” says the man from before, breathing over her so that his smell, his air, his being is forced down her nostrils, down her throat, and churns her stomach until she feels sick and angry. More than angry; she is enraged. It has been the worst week of her life and for once, she has escaped; however fleeting, however illusory, she escaped for a moment. And he took it from her.

Macaria wrenches her arm from his grip, so he grabs both her arms, even as she struggles. Her knee comes up out of instinct as Mors grabs his shoulders to shove him away. The man doubles over with an, “Oomph.” He yells, “Get her!” and two men stop pretending to shop, stepping forward and blocking her path back to the Acropolis.

“Let me through,” she says.

One man, the burlier of the two, go for Mors. He dodges and dances away, but it creates distance from him and Macaria. The man from before comes up from behind and wraps his arms around Macaria. His heavy breathing fills her ear, so that she squirms against him while kicking out at the other man.

When other looks at him, he says something about a runaway bride and they turn away, embarrassed for her. He backs up into the alley way, fighting to pin her against the wall and trying to force the earrings into her ears. In her struggles, he rips part of her ear, drops of blood falling against her neck, on her shoulder, and on his hand. She kicks and punches and bites. Then, she falls limp, and he curses as she falls to the ground, only to crawl through his legs. He scrambles to grab her, finding purchase with her chiton. The second man is grabbing her hair, only to be scolded by the first when she cries out.

Mors punches the second man, having rendered the third incapacitated. Macaria spins and kicks up, catching the first man’s jaw. There’s a satisfying snap as he falls back with a shriek. She gets to her feet. Mors is standing over the second man, who is groaning facedown into the dirt. A small, half-circle gathering has formed around them. Two Athenian soldiers come racing up. Finally.

“Isn’t she one of the Calydonians who arrived today?” whispers one. “She’s not the daughter of Herakles, is she?”

“Bad enough, I’ve seen him with the king,” mutters the other.

They exchange a weary glance before one approaches them. “Lady, may I have your name?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Macaria snaps.

“Err,” says the Athenian.

“We’re fine,” says Mors, stepping up to Macaria’s side. “Please go ahead to send word to her maid to have a bath ready.”

The soldier scowls at being turned into a messenger by someone other than his king but does as he’s told, running off. The other disperses the crowd that has gathered and takes the names of the men who attacked Mors and Macaria.

“Others will be here soon to arrest them,” the soldier tells them. “Please wait to leave with me until then.”

Macaria doesn’t speak while they wait, too focused on not shaking and on her throbbing ear. Mors gives the soldier some coins to buy a small piece of fabric. Macaria winces but holds it against her torn earlobe as six soldiers come running through the crowd.

“I’m sorry,” Mors whispers as the six arrest the three men. “We should have been more careful.”

“No,” Macaria snaps, glowering at the man. “ _He_ shouldn’t have done that. Disgusting pig.”

“Lady Macaria,” says the soldier standing by them. “We ought to return. I hear your mother is worried.”

“Of course they tattled,” Macaria grumbles. A part of her wishes for her old life, for a time when she had more freedom under Herakles’s rule, even during his absences.

The Athenian soldier yells for people to make way as Macaria and Mors follow through the city and back up the rocky hill to the citadel. She was less than an hour’s walk from the sea down in the marketplace. Now, she’s not sure she’ll ever be let out to see the sea up close again. At least not until the battle’s over, and by then, who knows if she’ll be alive. She’s smart, but not an oracle. Only the Fates know how the war will end.

In the palace on the way to the throne hall, Mors and Macaria have a square of four soldiers around them. Glenus comes up to the group with an expression of righteous fury, slipping through two of the guards to walk so close to Macaria that he’s practically leaning on her. She steps away from him, certain she could wait a million lifetimes for whatever he is about to say.

“Are you trying to whore yourself?” he utters just low enough for Macaria to hear. Macaria can’t believe her ears at first, but when she looks upon her brother, she sees him for who he is: another man. Another version of father.

“Are you trying to kid yourself?” she retorts, not bothering to lower her voice. Their footfalls and her voice bounce against the marble walls, echoing over the empty central pool. “Stop acting like some minor god trying to exercise what little power they have. You’re not father!”

Glenus turns bright red and marches ahead. “Bitch,” he mutters, walking faster. “You’ll ruin everything, Macaria! Who else will help us if you insult the Athenian king?”

“I wouldn’t worry about the king,” Mors says. His certainty instills some hope in Macaria.

“Why?” she asks. “He will see it as _us_ perpetrating the fight.”

“I’m a wise council. As you know, he sees me as someone to respect.”

Macaria snorts but doesn’t verbalize a response. She wants to point out that he is a handsome man who holds some power; he will naturally be listened to. His words remind her that she needs to be able to have her own argument ready—if Demophon will even listen to a woman. Though just a few minutes’ walk, she spends it thinking.

As soon as they enter the council hall, Demophon stands, forcing the other men onto their feet. Some ostentatiously remain seated, grumbling. Her brothers stand among the men towards the front, Demophon at his throne, her mother at his side. Glenus is whispering to Oneites. Ctesspius’s gaze is glued to Macaria, his hands clasped tightly together. Mors strides up to Demophon as though there is not an onlooking crowd surrounding them. The male gazes weigh Macaria down, each pair its own stone tied to her so that she can’t ignore them in the way that Mors does.

“King Demophon,” Mors says. “It has been a very long and trying day for the family of Herakles. Will you not allow them to retire?”

“But, but of course, you are allowed to leave whenever you wish,” Demophon says, making sure to look at each sibling and Deianira. No one moves, and Demophon frowns. “I understand there was a disruption at the market.”

“A man was behaving inappropriately,” Mors says loudly as the protestive grumbling rises among the council. “He set two more man on us. I hope you don’t receive all of your guests like this.”

Demophon pales. “N-no, certainly not,” he says. “The man will be punished for their actions accordingly. Made examples of.”

Macaria eyes Mors from the corner of her eye. Could he purposefully be weaseling his way into undermining Demophon? Is she playing into his hand? But she can’t just be quiet about what happened, either—and yet, if she is, she is undermining Demophon. Glenus would be right. Her suspicions would be right. Mors would just be using the situation to his advantage.

“Macaria?” Mors prompts.

She looks from her mother to the king. “We were attacked,” she says, “but I’m not asking you to kill them.”

Demophon’s eyes immediately go to Mors. One of Mors’s eyebrows raises at the corner.

“I trust you can decide what would be best, King Demophon,” Macaria says pointedly.

When Mors doesn’t say anything and Demophon realizes he’s not going to, the king itches the side of his face anxiously. “Yes, well, thank you,” he bites out. “He will be given a hefty fine, and his men will receive ten lashes each.” He looks to the nearest soldier. “See that it’s done, so that we may quickly move on from this. Deianira, dear, take your daughter.”

Deianira stands and strides over to her daughter, taking Macaria by the arm and half-dragging her out. Macaria looks back at Mors and Demophon and her brothers. Mors walks up the stairs to the throne to stand beside Demophon. Demophon is avtively avoiding looking at Mors and Macaria. Glenus looks away when their gazes meet. Oneites is staring at his feet. Ctesspius watches them leave carefully.

“What was that?” Macaria asks once her and her mother have left the hall.

“Macaria, dearest one, you are so strong and still so naïve,” Deianira says, releasing her daughter’s arm. “What were you thinking?”

“That I cannot tell is Mors should be trusted or not and that I wanted to see the sea.”

“My darling, the Calydonian men only ever acted accordingly around you and I because of your father. It was fear that controlled them. Remove that and what do we as women have? Come now, let’s wash this day away. The serving girl Demophon gave you did her job.”

“There shouldn’t have to be fear for them to treat me that same as before!” Macaria stops, forcing her mother to do so, too.

When Deianira turns though, there is no understanding in his motherly gaze. “There is no more before!” she says. “Your father is gone now. This is our life. Be gratefully King Demphon has opened his home to us!”

“Because he wants you! You open your eyes, Mother.”

Deianira slaps Macaria, leaving a sharp, stinging sensation. Macaria’s fingers graze over her tingling cheek.

“They are open, Macaria,” her mother says. “It is time for you to accept reality. I am doing what I must for my children. What have you been doing and for whom?” With that, she turns around and stalks off.

Macaria glances around to see if anyone say the exchange. A group of whispering handmaids on the far side of the pool disperse and scurry away from one another. Macaria forces herself to follow her mother, all too aware that her right to a relaxing bath has been stripped away, that the next few hours will consist of harsh hair tugging and washing and an earful of patronizing scolding.

 _Behave, behave, behave._ It’s all her mother knows and so it’s all she says. Words spill from her mouth. For what purpose? They spill, spill, spill. They take up space, energy, time. For what? Space, time energy—Macaria takes too much effort to raise. She is too much. Not right. Wrong.

Sit down, they say. Stay here, they say. Quiet down, they say. Run, her father said. Harder, faster. Do it again. Swing, kick, punch. Learn with your brothers. When I’m away, they will protect you. Stop, you are not listening. Go find your mother. Sit down and read—no, not that. This. This, this, this. Only these. Those are not right. Wrong.

It is a curse to think. It is a curse to be a woman. To think and be a woman is to call upon struggle and shake his hand. It is nights of crying and days of fighting. To think and fight and be a woman is _to be born wrong_.

[Ancient Agora of Athens](https://www.q-files.com/history/ancient-greece/life-in-ancient-greece/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agora of Classical Athens: https://ancientathens3d.com/classical-agora/  
> Agora of Archaic Athens: https://ancientathens3d.com/archaic-agora/
> 
> Image: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/57/1c/42/571c42d147f84ff891a2c617c427ca65.jpg


	8. The Greatest Feat and Worst Omen

In the middle of the night, Thanatos is falling towards the ground, but instead of hitting the dirt ground outside Athena’s Temple, he falls through it. Staying rigid, unmoving as there is a moment of free falling where nothing holds him but the cool night air and his break through time and space. Where the Acropolis of Athens once surrounded him, hills rise and fall around him. Several feet away a top one of the hills, nested among the shrubbery, soldiers sleeping on hard ground and tents replace the marble and elites sleeping in bed. The sound of the sea waves is far off in the distance, barely to be heard over the murmurs of those on watch at the small fires.

“You’re breaking the rules,” Ker says. She steps up to him. Her shaved head and pale eyes gleam against the moonlight in highlighted apprehension.

“Bending,” he corrects. “Where are the Nosoi?”

“They’re here, scouting,” says Ker, gesturing out to the distant encampment. “Do you think she will appreciate your efforts? Humans are fickle. Human _women_ have an especially bad rap.”

“Didn’t know you’re faring any better as a goddess.”

“Oh, touchy. . .. You haven’t answered, though.”

“I compared her to you, you know. How would you feel?”

“I have no interest in romance.”

“If you did.”

“I have no interest, but I’m not above using a man to my advantage. She is not like me, Thanatos, but that may mean that she’ll appreciate it. . . or hate you for it. Who can know?”

The Nosoi came up. Several figures merged until one stood, Phthisis*, before Thanatos and Ker. The daemon's skin rose and peeled from oozing ulcers, open lesions down to the bone, and dry patches. One leg drags, one arm hangs lower than the other. Flies buzzed around. Thanatos is careful not to swat at them. He needs the Nosoi. With one insult, the daemon would disappear.

“It’s done,” the daemon says. Their voice is hoarse, as though their lungs have shriveled and blackened, filled with their own blood. “Their meat rots, their water infected. It will wipe out less than half.”

“Good enough,” Thanatos says. “And your word?”

The Nosos nods and winks. His eyelid is so saggy and thin it looks as though the slightest breeze could carry it away. Thanatos has seen a lot of death, but the violence of disease is a silent killer. Unlike how war calls to the Keres with the loud clanging of swords and booming of drums and horns, pestilence calls with the moans of elderly and coughs of infants.

“So long as you don’t forget when I collect my boon,” the Nosos says.

“I won’t,” Thanatos promises. “Thank you.” He looks to his sister, who holds out her hand to the daemon.

“Time to go home, young one,” she says with a toothy grin. “You did so well.” When the daemon takes her outstretched hand, they disappear with the breeze like mist under the sun.

Thanatos overlooks the encampment, prepared to return as earlier as late morning, before returning to his comfortable kline in Athena.

Soft golden sun streams in through the open window, a breeze lifting the linen curtains. The horizon is a purplish brown that transitions into tangerine orange to wheat yellow, a thin line of sage to the pale, clearest blue. Apollo’s sun is still young and new, Eos the Dawn having risen over Athena.

King Demophon stands before Mors, who glares down at him, in the king’s private rooms. No one else is in the room. Guards stand yards away, deterring even servants from coming any closer to the room.

“I have promised a word with the girl—”

“Macaria.”

“I have already told her I would tell her something. She was overly persistent. I had to get her to leave.” With a look from Mors, Demophon adds hurriedly, “I didn’t want to embarrass her, especially after everything.”

“And now you must come up with something. That was your improvisation, Demophon,” Mors says. There is an underlying edge in his voice that makes the warrior king flinched. “She’s not to know yet. I’ve already told you what she needs to believe for now.”

“Yes.” Demophon bows his head. When he raises it, Mors is gone, and the king slumps into his kline. To have Death in one’s bedroom and survive surely must be the greatest feat and worst omen.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Macaria walks with Pelagia to the court, only to be barred from entering by the guards.

“What are you doing?” Macaria demands. “I’m to meet King Demophon.”

“The king is attending to urgent matters,” says one of the men.

“Do you want to be the reasons King Eurystheus is able to destroy Athens?” she asks. Dramatic, but she’s learned that’s what it takes to be listened to as a woman, even if it means solidifying their ideas on “womanly behavior.”

One of the guards looks as though she’s just told a joke so unfunny there is nothing to do but laugh at how bad it is.

“So treason is funny now?”

The guard’s smirk is swiped from his face. The other guard walks into the hall, disappearing around the stairs. Macaria has half a mind to try and run around the guard, but dramatics aren’t necessarily going to help her case.

The guard returns and nods. “The king will see you briefly,” he says, and Macaria marches past.

King Demophon stands behind a desk covered in open scrolls and maps. Three councilmen, her brothers, and Acacius stand around the table with him. Hyllus watches contemptuously while she approaches. If they weren’t guaranteed to laugh at her and negate her words, Macaria would think them all being there was better. As it was, they were not so kind to women’s words.

“May I speak with you privately?” she asks.

“We are pressed for time,” King Demophon says. “Can you not say it before us all?”

“I don’t think so, King Demophon.”

“Alright,” he says and begrudgingly walks with her away from the table.

“I know you’re busy, so forgive my bluntness,” she says, irked and struggling to be understanding. “I believe Mors could be a traitor, a spy.”

King Demophon gapes at her, and Macaria seizes the chance.

“How would he have known anything about the attack? He came here less than a week prior to King Eurystheus’s arrival to Calydon, so he must have known before coming here. He came here just to warn you, then raced to Calydon just to warn us? Where did his information come from? I think he wants us all here in Athens. I think King Eurystheus wants war.”

Demophon puts a hand on her shoulder. She can feel the callouses. How unlike Mors’s hands, which are as smooth and cool as the finest marble.

“Macaria,” he says, and she leaves her memory of lunch. “Mors is not a traitor. He is not who you think he is—”

“He comes from the west, I know.”

“Ah, yes, the. . . west. There is more, but I’ll leave it to him to explain. As for your accusation, everyone with half of a brain knows Eurystheus would follow your family wherever if you were to escape, and you did. War with the Tirynians was inevitable; it was simply a matter of where you would go and who would welcome you. I’ve taken you in and am willing to protect you and your family out of respect for your father. That was my own decision. As was sending Mors as a messenger to get your family here. Whether he said I sent you or not is redundant at this point. And if you are still worried even now about treachery, look back at that table. He’s not with us. Mors does not discuss strategies and plans. Now, you are going to stop this falsity at once before it gets out, before any ears beyond my own hear of it, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Macaria grumbles.

Demophon’s grip on her shoulder tightens in warning. “Good,” he says. “Now why don’t you take another bath, rest, and spend the day playing games with the other women or attending to the domestics. Don’t step where you are unfamiliar, little one.”

 _Don’t step where you are blinded, old king_ , Macaria thinks.

Demophon leaves a fuming Macaria. Glenus’s smile faulters when he sees her expression. She strides out, stung but able to agree with the king on one thing: she needs a bath. She needs to let the steam open her pores, to let the herbal water wash away any illusions she may be holding onto and cleanse and purify her body of what was and wash the entire day away. She needs to cleanse herself, rather than her mother’s angry scrubbing with the salts and clay. Her skin still feels raw and there is a ghostly feeling of her harsh tugging from last night as she chided her daughter into silent, demure obedience. She needs to think.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Demophon called on a mantis to divine the will of the gods. The mantis approaches Demophon’s throne. There is a looseness in the air that has been pulled taunt as of late. With a certain foreboding, lanky man not present, the council hall vibrates with charged energy. Councilmen are more forthcoming and yell their opinions to their king. It is the first time Deianira and her younger sons witness the council at its peak before the upcoming battle.

“My king, haruspicy** has determined that the will of the gods is to go forth,” says the priest.

Glenus lets out a sigh of relief and his heads bows between his arms, his elbows on his knees where he sits.

“Thank the gods,” says Oneites. “The Athenians will help, then.”

“The Calydonian ox’s liver revealed to us that we must proceed carefully,” the priest continues, and the men falls hush. “King Eurythesus has faced many obstacles, but it makes him all the more determined. He will not be easily stopped. We must visit the oracle for more advice, my king.”

Demophon raises his hand in acknowledgement. “I will,” he assures his high priest. “The trip has already been scheduled. We have an additional day or two to prepare. I have word that King Eurythesus’s men have caught a sickness. If he is so determined, not even this will stop him.”

Murmurs fill the hall as men try to discern how the king knows when no known messengers have been sent out. But the lanky man is missing, the brothers notice. Ctessipus eyes the spot Mors normally stands at next to Demophon. Oneites bites his nails. Glenus grinds his teeth. Mors may save their family from dying by King Eurythesus’s hand, but he has already caused them more harm than a single battle fighting a travel-wearing, sickened army ever could. He sneers at the thought of that man using Macaria. She needs protection, that naïve little girl, but she is too stubborn. It will ruin them.

[ Hercule apporte à Eurysthée la ceinture de la reine des Amazones ("Hercules brings to Eurystheus the Belt of the Queen of the Amazons"), Daniel Sarrabat](http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/Herakles/amazon.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Phthisis - meaning "wasting away," one of the Nosoi/Pestis, or spirits/daimones that personify sickness, plague, and disease. He(?) personifies specifically rot, decay and putrefaction.  
> Some basic sources:  
> Nosoi -> https://www.theoi.com/Daimon/Nosoi.html  
> Phthisis -> https://www.theoi.com/greek-mythology/personifications.html (you'll have to scroll down) 
> 
> **haruspicy - liver divination. With little ceremony involved, the ritual was kept simple and straightforward usually: a non-human animal was killed. The blood and liver were looked at for the purposes of divination. From what I can tell, these types of rituals were usually only performed when facing an important decision/situation, one usually involving war. More on it later so stay tuned ;)
> 
> Image: Hercule apporte à Eurysthée la ceinture de la reine des Amazones  
> Herakles's Ninth Labor: http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/Herakles/amazon.html


	9. Worse Than a Traitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set up a Twitter @montblancaAO3 if you want to contact me there for any reason. As of rn, I'm not using it to make announcements. I just wanted to provide a safe space should anyone want to use it. If it gains a little traffic, then I will use it for announcements, too, even if it's just for one person lol 
> 
> Almost to chapter 10 and almost to 100 reads--whoop, whoop! Thank you to everyone engaging :)

Hair wet and mind clear, Macaria sends a message to Mors’s rooms asking to meet him once more. She sends Pelagia to ensure no one reads it, not wanting to hear any more from her family on how she should or should not behave. Did father ever have to worry about such things? No. So, why should she?

“Complete hypocrisy,” she mutters as Pelagia returns. “Well?”

A blush spreads over Pelagia. “He wishes to take you to the highest point in Athens today,” she says. “I informed him that that means going to Lycabettus. You will be able to have a clear view of the sea, but it will be further away.”

“How far is it?” Macaria asks, and Pelagia begins to help her dress, though little help is needed. She decides to go without shoes for the day. She has worn shoes more often this week than her entire life. It was beginning to get un-Greek-like.

“Less than an hour’s walk from the citadel. It’s very close. . .. Won’t you bring someone with you?”

“You and he are enough. I will go out a million times if I have to prove it.”

Pelagia approaches, gripping a veil(1) with white knuckles. “Please,” she says. “They will leave you alone if you wear it.”

“I don’t know which is worse, having to rely on my father or a piece of cloth,” Macaria mutters but takes the veil. It’s embroidered with vibrant indigo and threads of silver. Pelagia was careful to pick one that matched the green of her Chinese silk peplos(2).

Unmarried, it isn’t necessary for Macaria to cover her face, which is how she prefers it. She wants to feel the sea breeze against her cheeks.

“With this, they will listen to you,” Pelagia says.

Macaria uses the mirror to finish fastening the veil. “Is that all it takes?” she scoffs. “I would have worn it from birth.”

“They think you’ll behave well, that you’re respectable,” Pelagia says. “Like your mother.”

“No one listens to her.”

Pelagia’s gaze falls to the floor. “Demophon does,” she murmurs. “He doesn’t care for the other mistresses these days.”

“That’s because my mother was the wife of Herakles and is still Queen of Calydon until Hyllus’s ceremony can be performed—oh, gods! Imagine Iole as queen. How horrid.”

“They listen to her.”

“Because she is as attractive as Aphrodite herself.”

“Because she does as they want, so she gets what she wants.” Pelagia speaks as if imploring Macaria to see things her way.

“I don’t want to have to resort to such things,” Macaria says stubbornly. She pulls out a string of hair from the veil. “Non-royal women behave as such. When my father was king, I would get what I wanted with a simple wave. Now? I’m just another woman, hardly a princess! My husband has died, I have no man to fight for me. I have no need for a man to fight for me.”

“Now you do.”

Macaria stares at herself in the mirror, her hair covered by the embroidered blue cloth. “Seems unfortunately so,” she says. “I’ll have to resolve myself to expression through bright colors for pseudo submission to be taken more seriously, fine.”

“After yesterday, though. . ..” Pelagia almost whispers. “I also don’t think it was your fault, but you know. . .. If we don’t blame ourselves, how can we expect them to blame themselves?”

“I don’t expect them to, but only because they’re stupid enough to not understand that it’s a piece of fabric stopping them.”

“That’s better than them realizing it _is_ only a piece of fabric.”

“Did he say when?” Macaria asks, changing the subject. Talking with Pelagia only a hair better than talking with her mother on this.

“He is probably making sure we have enough time to—” Pelagia rushes forward after Macaria, who is already out her door and walking down the path.

“Where are his quarters?” she asks.

“You can’t!” Pelagia gasps, stopping. “I’m sorry, I won’t say.”

Macaria whirls on Pelagia, who takes two steps back.

“Think of your brothers,” the serving woman says. “Your family.”

“You do _not_ tell me what to do!”

“Am I interrupting?” Mors’s voice cuts through, making both women jump.

Macaria glares at Pelagia, willing her to stay quiet. “No,” Macaria says. “Let’s go.” She doesn’t even look at Pelagia. “You, stay.”

Macaria walks alongside Mors, leaving her quarters and a sulking Pelagia behind. Macaria knows it’s dangerous to go out alone with Mors the Possible Traitor. She also knows Pelgia and the patrolmen they’ll have to pass by won’t let that happen. She’s not even sure the patrolmen will let her through once they reach the guardhouse, not after yesterday.

“Should I ask?” Mors says after the tension has left Macaria’s body.

“She thinks she can tell me what to do,” she says, shaking her head. “The only people who dare to do that and get away with it are my brothers and parents.”

“Note to self,” Mors says lightheartedly.

Macaria lets out a long exhale. “Why are we going to Lycabettus today?” she asks as they walk. Mors’s hands move behind his back.

“It’s the highest point,” he says. “You want to see the sea. There are some nice views from here, but I hear Lycabettus is the best view other than going to the shores.”

“I want to go to the sea. There’s a difference.”

“You don’t want to go then?”

“No. . . I do.”

“Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here, right?” The corner of Mors’s mouth quirks upwards but the movement fades into a frown. “Yesterday.” Macaria instantly knows what he wants to ask, and her mind races to find an excuse. “You didn’t have them killed despite Athenian law(3).”

Macaria lets out a breath; she’s safe from being pestered about undermining him, for now. “No,” she says.

“Why?”

 _Because I don’t want the king to be your puppet_ , she thinks in silence. The pause has Mors saying, “Ah.”

“What?”

“You suspect me,” he says. “So, you would want to disempower me. When I inferred their death, you thought I was trying to control King Demophon. It’s the law, Macaria, that’s all, but you seem pretty set on this traitor scheme. Tell me, how far have you gotten on proving my guilt?”

“Not far enough,” she admits bitterly as they approach the gate patrol.

Mors chuckles. “I’m sure the truth will come out sooner or later,” he murmurs, but it only makes Macaria feel worse.

They spend the walk to the top of Lycabettus Hill chatting. Walking in the opposite direction of the agora, Athens grows quieter as the houses grow smaller, the lots larger, the animals more commonplace, and the fields and crops within sight. While it isn’t unusual to see men on horseback or animals being sold in city center, there is no room for the acres and acres of land they grazed on. Far off in the distance, oxen pull plows with farmers behind them; a shepherd sits on under a tree, his dogs circling the sheep; families stand under the sun, gathering and picking crops. Behind them, the shadow of the Acropolis looms over the surrounding areas as the sun continues to climb.

Macaria spends half of their walk to Lycabettus distracting herself by talking of menial things and remarking on their surroundings or something far away that catches her attention, like how the herding dogs are cuter than she thought and many of the farmers younger, and the other half taking mental notes on Mors. Less than halfway it becomes obvious they’re being followed by three Athenian soldiers. As much as she doesn’t want to need them, their presence does give her some peace of mind. There is no worrying about strangers. There is no nagging in the back of her mind that if Mors is a traitor, he could easily kill her. But there is another nagging, one that picks at her brain like a child picks at peeling paint: she is too unafraid of showing affection.

Mors does not help. He is gentle and polite but not in the way her brothers are, where they do it out of duty and strict, disciplined training. He’s well-schooled in etiquette, careful not to touch her now that they have watchful eyes trained on them with nowhere to sneak off to, but he makes it clear that he does when he leans an inch closer than necessary or hovers his hand behind her back when pointing at a racing hare. It leaves a tingle at the base of her spine and a fluttering sensation in her gut.

And he is frustratingly attentive so she can’t catch him unaware and he is quick when she turns sarcastic to hide the fact that she was trying to trick him into slipping up and giving his secret away. It makes it easy to hate how he does it but hard to hate him. Macaria wants to hate Mors. She suspects him. Hating would make it easier. If he is a traitor, she should kill him in his sleep. Take a blade, sneak into his room, and plunge it into his chest.

Instead, within the hour, she is sitting on top of the highest hill in Athens, looking over the city at the sea with him. There is a panoramic view for hectares that is broken up only by a few of the trees. The ground is hard but not overly uncomfortable. The breeze is far enough that it’s not harsh but near enough to the sea that it still carries the salty scent with it. As it comes up the hill, it carries also with it the scent of the pines that cover the hill’s base, so strong Macaria can taste it.

“Would it make you feel better if I tell you everything?” Mors asks suddenly as they look over the city to the sea, the sun high in the sky.

“Yes,” she exhales. “You know that.”

Mors grins, and Macaria frowns, realizing he was baiting her.

“How about another day?” he asks.

“Why should it wait?” she says, annoyed.

“Macaria,” Mors says, leaning back. “You think I’m a traitor. You have no idea. Can you imagine something worse out there?” As mercurial as ever, his grin takes a glum turn.

“What could be worse than a traitor?” Macaria hisses in his face. “You’ll cause so many deaths. Why?” She stands. “Why?” she demands again when all he does is look up at her and squint against the light.

“I’m not a traitor nor a spy, but I could have a thousand men killed in the blink of an eye.”

Suddenly, the attractive, the allure Mors exudes made sense.

“You’re a demigod, aren’t you?” It’s not a question, not really.

The corners of Mors’s lips curve up but it’s not quite a smile. There’s no joy to it. His squinting, amber eyes crinkling at the corners. “Something like that,” he says softly. “You’ll have the details soon enough, I’m sure. Demophon and I can keep my identity a secret only for so much longer before it will become more trouble than it’s worth. Just look at us. The fighting will only distract from the upcoming battle, and I see how the Athenian king pays more attention to what he thinks I want than what he ought to be getting done when I’m around. Still, it’s something that may be best left alone.”

“So, what? You’re going to tell everyone who you are and _poof_ , leave, just like that?”

“No, I won’t leave,” Mors says, standing, “but I don’t need to be standing next to a king or you, a princess, to get things done.”

“Right, you have your _godly_ connections.” Macaria picks up her skirts, ready to leave.

“Something like that.”

“So long as you help.” She stares at him, he stares back. A stalemate.

As the breeze blows, the clouds crawl across the sky like rolling puffs of cotton. One rolls in front of Apollo’s bright sun, blotting out the harsh light. It continues down its path, though, and the sun shines down on the city. At the highest point, there is little stopping it from weighing down on them, and Macaria is actually glad for the cover her veil offers.

“You’re not a fan of demigods,” Mors says, lifting his hand to keep the sun from shining in his face until another cloud comes. It’s not a judgment. He’s breaking their impasse.

“I haven’t known very many genuine ones.” Macaria steps to the side as she speaks, and he shifts so his gaze doesn’t fall directly in line with the sun. 

Mors falls quiet for a moment. “Sometimes there may be no choice,” he murmurs.

“There’s always a choice.” She starts to walk along the top of Lycabettus Hill, Mors at her side.

“I’ve found that when people refuse help, it gets them killed, Macaria.”

“And I’ve found that when people accept help, it gets them into more trouble. There is more concern over who will become their Brutus(4) and stab them in the back.”

Mors stops. Eyes like liquid sunlight hold her gaze, making sure she is paying attention to his next words. “I will tell everyone everything, if it’s what you think is best.”

Macaria studies Mors’s face, looking for a hint of condescension or teasing. He stares back with a questioning gaze, a wonderment directed at her. Those light brown eyes have always been honest, even if he himself has not been as forthcoming.

“I do,” she says. “I think those who are true allies and friends are always honest with one another. Omission, too, is dishonesty. And it is hard to be friends with someone you have a hard time trusting.”

“It won’t be what you think,” Mors says.

“So long as you are not a traitor, I’d like to think I won’t care.”

Mors smiles. “You’d _like_ to think,” he echoes with a laugh. “Very honest indeed.”

“I know,” Macaria smirks. “I guess we will find out if it’ll be true or not. . . perhaps tomorrow? There is time pressure.” 

“I’m not sure this will instill as strong feelings of brotherhood as you’re expecting.”

“I will make you a deal: you be honest and I will support you in it. I will help you to foster those feelings of trust.”

“And how will you do that?”

“By explaining why we will want you on our side. I can whisper into their ears after you convince them that we need you, assuming you can prove you are trustworthy.”

“You won’t try to convince them?” he asks in a teasing yet hopefully tone.

“If I don’t know who you really are, how can it be certain that I’ll think of something on the spot? No, it has to be more subtle coming from me, especially with my brothers. _I_ am not going to do all the work when it’s _your_ consequences. If you were honest from the beginning, this would not be a problem. I said I would help, not do the work for you.”

“Debatable on it not being a problem, but I see your point. You reap what you sow.”

“Exactly.”

“Then, tomorrow I’ll prove who I am and that I can be trusted.”

Macaria glances at Mors from the corner of her eye, looking him up and down. Who could he be? A prince, most likely, if his story is to be believed, if he can prove it to be true, but what kind? They won’t trust just any prince.

“Why is this so important to you?” Mors asks. “Though not everyone in the council likes or trusts me, they trust or at least respect their king and his choices. He is allowing me to advise but also, I don’t see any of their plans for the upcoming battle. So, while not ideal, I’m not seen as much of a threat by them as by you given they haven’t tried to have me killed.”

“As you said, they respect and trust King Demophon. Blindness or turning away can lead to catastrophe. I’d rather see to it that that doesn’t happen, especially given the battle that’s to happen.”

“No personal gain?”

“There is always personal gain.”

“What if your association with me has the opposite effect you’re hoping for? To gain respect?”

“You’re a prince,” she mutters. “My mother and some brothers will already be won over. So long as you’re a good one, it will have the results I want.”

“You’re very certain.”

“When taking a risk, it’s good to be aware of the possible downfalls, but it’s best to have conviction.”

Mors doesn’t say anything. It’s a silence that speaks louder than words; he doesn’t agree.

“What?” she asks.

“I’ve come to focus more on the end than the means over the years,” he answers.

Macaria shrugs and opens her mouth when a commotion with the soldiers catches their attention. Mors takes a step closer, only to stop abruptly. His back straightens as his shoulders go rigid and his jaw clenches.

“Come this way!” one calls.

Macaria immediately runs towards them, having no interest in dealing with another pervert or worse. Mors, however, turns and walks in the other direction. Safely behind the soldiers, Macaria spots a young person several yards away and quickly approaching. Their hair is cut close to their scalp, their features sharp and figure lean. A wool himation hangs from their shoulders as though they have come from somewhere cold.

Mors says something. The words are intelligible, but the tone is almost angry.

“Why do you think I’m here, you imbecile?!” the person yells, darks eyes blazing. As they draw closer, the soldiers draw their swords.

“Quiet,” Mors says. He looks back at the bewildered men and Macaria.

“You know her?” asks one of the soldiers.

“Yes,” Mors says pointedly. Though his words answer Macaria, they aren’t meant for her. “Regrettably, she’s just passing through.”

“Do your job,” Ker hisses in Mors’s face. As she marches past Macaria, a chill blows past as if the breeze suddenly picked up. They all watch her as she walks to the path that will carry her down to the base of the hill where the pines are until the top of her head disappears.

“Who was she?” Macaria asks, impressed. “How did she get here?” She turns to the soldiers. “Where were you two?”

“Don’t blame them,” Mors says. “She’s my sister.”

“ _That_ was your sister?” She grins. _And I’m like her?_

“Let’s go back,” Mors says, gesturing for Macaria to lead the way back. His other hand ghosts her lower back. “Apparently, there are still somethings that need to be done.”

Macaria is still smiling as they begin their descent. Despite the path’s length, Mors’s sister is nowhere to be seen.

“I like her,” Macaria says.

Mors smiles weakly in return.

[Limestone statue of a veiled female votary, Greece, first cent. BC](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/242009)

[Peplos Kore from the Acropolis](https://sites.google.com/site/adairarthistory/ii-ancient-mediterranean/28-peplos-kore-from-the-acropolis)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) More on the Greek veil in connection to Islam and gender issues: https://lysistrata.commons.gc.cuny.edu/2017/05/01/the-power-behind-the-veil-symbolism-from-ancient-greece-to-muslim-societies-in-france-and-germany/ 
> 
> In connection, on Lysistrata: https://www.ancient.eu/Lysistrata/  
> https://www.ancient-literature.com/greece_aristophanes_lysistrata.html  
> The play: http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=aristoph.+lys.+1   
> https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Greek/Lysistrata.php
> 
> (2) On clothing: https://www.ancient.eu/article/20/ancient-greek-clothing/
> 
> https://www.jstor.org/stable/40960594?seq=1
> 
> If you notice that I use a term incorrectly, keep my on my toes and correct me :)
> 
> (3) In reference to the remark on "Athenian law," idk if that was an actual law in Athena. I know Spartan women had their own knives to cut the faces of those attempting to rape them. It was meant to scar the rapist so that they would be marked and forever shamed. Shitty that they (and even womxn now with keys and pepper spray) have to carry a weapon in the first place but that's pretty epic that it seems like it was taken seriously when it did happen (compared to instances now where the rapist gets off scotch free *cough* Brock Turner *cough*) 
> 
> (4) Julius Caesar’s assassination: March 15, 44 B.C.
> 
> Shakespeare’s play The Tragedy of Julius Caesar: 1599-1600.
> 
> “Et tu, Brute?” (“You too, Brutus?”) - There’s no record of Caesar saying this to Marcus Junius Brutus, a senator-turned-assassin to Caesar, but it’s become iconic in reference to an ultimate betrayal and I wanted to fit a reference to this event in. The only other famous traitor that has this much influence throughout history would be Judas, but this isn’t a Christian text or setting so not going to include that reference here. A polytheistic (i.e., pre-Christianity and Islam) Roman event reference seemed more appropriate than an Abrahamic one for a story based on polytheistic ancient Greek mythos.
> 
> For more info., check out Caesar’s Civil War, Caesar’s increasingly unrepublican behavior, the Liberator’s civil war, and the Fall of the Roman Republic. When put into context, including the fact that Brutus was associated with the group who helped lead the overthrown of the last Roman king, it’s really not surprising that Brutus conspired against Julius Caesar. Historical context: it tends to explain a shit ton more than the average person typically gives it credit for lol
> 
> Fun facts:  
> -Brutus was a peer to Mark Antony, which gets into the whole Caesar-Cleopatra-Mark Antony love triangle.  
> -Caesar’s successor Augustus helped restore some peace under the Roman Empire after the fall of the Roman Republic, but two more emperor’s later, the infamous Caligula would rule. Whether he was truly as chaotic as he’s often portrayed seems somewhat debated by scholars, but most seem to agree that he was ambitious and driven in increasing the power of the emperor (as emperor). Following Caligula, Claudius actually helped start the campaign of conquering Britain. From what I understand, the British Empire wasn’t a fan of the Roman Empire for a while. Honestly, when you start to go through the history of the Roman emperors, it seems like a really chaotic time lol, but then again, that's most of history (coming from someone who studies East Asia, specifically Japan)  
> Sources:  
> -Free archived book on Caesar’s Civil War: https://archive.org/details/adriangoldsworthycaesarscivilwar4944bczlib.org/page/n3/mode/2up  
> -Basic background on the Roman Republic’s collapse: https://www.history.com/news/rome-republic-augustus-dictator#:~:text=Then%2C%20in%20133%20B.C.E.%2C%20Rome,the%20history%20of%20the%20republic.&text=In%2044%2C%20senators%20murdered%20Augustus,Caesar%20in%20the%20Roman%20Senate.  
> -On Caesar’s contribution to the collapse: https://sites.psu.edu/cams101tiberius/the-fall-of-the-roman-republic/  
> -Timeline of some Roman-British interactions: https://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/HistoryofBritain/Timeline-of-Roman-Britain/
> 
> On gender dynamics in ancient Greece: https://digitalworks.union.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1818&context=theses
> 
> Scholarship on veils in ancient Greece: https://www.academia.edu/10399067/Aphrodites_Tortoise_The_Veiled_Woman_of_Ancient_Greece_2003_
> 
> Review of the above work:  
> https://www.jstor.org/stable/30222133
> 
> Source on more general practice of veil-wearing:  
> https://scholarsarchive.byu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?filename=18&article=1016&context=mi&type=additional


	10. The Gentleness of a Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the 100+ reads!!! We've reached chapter ten! How's it so far??? ;) If you're enjoying it, please feel free to leave a Kudos or comment so I know that you are. 
> 
> Finally, a moment for shameless plugging, if you'll excuse it: If you enjoy this, you might also like my work The Vampire King (need help coming up with a better title, hoping something comes up as we get further into the story)! It's got vampires and exploring themes/motifs/stereotypes associated with them, blood and mild smut ofc, some lesbian representation (not right away but once characters start getting to know each other), politics, war's aftermath, power dynamics, cultural clashes/communication, romance, enemies-to-lover, and low fantasy. Check it out, it'd mean a lot
> 
> Update on current and future plans: I'm trying to work on my stories (mostly TGBD and TVK; sorry anyone who's waiting on TDA, it's not as high of a priority to me rn) at the same time, just switching off by day (for now while on break). Once my break is over and I return to school, though, the schedule will go by week bc I am that nerd who worries about GPA. I'll be back at school by the 25th. 
> 
> With that, thank you again for the engagement, please leave a kudos or comment or say sth on Twitter or. . . sth lol so I know how it's going (with the story or with you in general)

After the trip to Lycabettus Hill and meeting Mors’s sister yesterday, there is a crisp, sharp chill in the air as though it became autumn overnight, skipping months ahead. The song thrushes’ lullabies rang through the air with the rising of the sun.

In the hall, all have gathered for the start of the workday. Word has been sent to Demophon that Hyllus is making progress with his half-siblings. As children of the god Herakles, they at the very least are willing to listen to their brother. The oldest of their father’s most recent family, Herakles spared no expense in his raising and training; a moment, a willingness to listen, was all Hyllus needed. With King Eurysteus’s men fallen ill and still recovering, even as it is said that he pushes them to march on, even as it is said that they collapse before a kilometer passes, the Athenians and Calydonians are making headway on all the preparations needed for the battle.

The hall thrums to life with the men’s voices, the air hums with their tenor and baritone laughter. They converse with Glenus, Oneites, and Ctessipus almost as if the three brothers have been accepted into the Athenian way; yet, there always remains a distance, a rigid handshake, a false smile, or a hurried farewell. Deianira stays by Demophon’s side. Everyone has come to expect they will marry, whether the councilmen approve or not, after the battle. Few doubt that they will win, so what better way to celebrate?

For once eager to take part in the council activities, Macaria sits with the other women. As demeaning as it is, the idea that Mors will step forward finally puts the issue to the back of her mind. The other women look proud of their position by the king, after all. Of thousands, they were chosen for their beauty; they have a right to their pride and vanity, her mother most of all. But at what a cost. Macaria, fidgeting, is scolded by her mother.

“Sit still, Ria,” Deianira admonishes quietly. “What’s gotten into you?”

Macaria doesn’t answer and her mother turns her attention back to the ongoings of the council. Demophon is droning on. Macaria hardly hears anything, so wound up by the fact that she knows today is it. Today, Mors will either prove himself trustworthy or traitorous. Either she will be right and become even more divisive among people, or she will be wrong and seen as a little girl with her head up in the sky, crying wolf. They may never trust her again if she is wrong, but if they trust her, then who knows all that Mors could have done to betray them. If Mors is a traitor and so close to the king, Macaria can hardly breathe at the thought; all the things he could have lied about and told King Eurysteus. The very fact that it could well mean that their army has not fallen sick at all but could arrive by nightfall.

An Athenian man comes jogging through the hall, causing a stir. Men quiet down and all eyes turn to him as he approaches and politely greets the king.

“May I have a word?” he asks.

With a wave of Demophon’s hand, the man goes up to the throne to whisper in the king’s ear.

“ _Now_?” the king asks. “Right, of course.” The man leaves, and Demophon shifts in his seat. The air, warm from all the bodies, is suffocating Macaria. “Mors has new information,” the king announces to the council, voice as taut as the tensed muscles in his face. “It’s pertinent to what we are discussing now.”

Mors steps out behind the curtains that hang behind Demophon’s throne. Macaria stands, gawking. The hall falls so silent there is a ringing in Macaria’s ears.

Gone is his clean, bright chiton and dirty ponytail. His robes, pinned up by a butterfly pin, are dark, as though he’s in mourning, making the pallor his skin take on shine. Upon his head lays a wreath with brown-tipped leaves. His hair is blonde and dark and lays in waves that reach for his shoulder tops like snakes reaching for the next olive branch. It’s the only thing that doesn’t appear shadow-like, like he could evaporate any given moment and is suspended between life and death. But the most shocking of all are the wings that unflur behind his back. They are a murky gray-black, like charcoal, and cast extensive, enveloping shadows across the court.

Macaria doesn’t even realize people are screaming and running until someone pushes her down. She scrambles away from the pounding feet, but it places her in close proximity to Mors, or more properly: Thanatos, _Death_.

Despite his looks, though, there is a sadness and vexation exuding from him as he watches some of the more panicked councilmen flee. Three or four have collapsed where they sat. Many stay, either in shock or ordered by King Demophon to not disrespect the god. It’s a clear threat.

Thanatos steps forward, kneeling before Macaria. He is skeletal in his gauntness and deep-set, hooded eyes, but they remain bright and alive and he moves with the lithe of both shadow and youth. His bony hand extends, and she takes it. It’s cold and it chills her, shaking her from her stupor, so that when he stands up, she is all too aware of who he is and what he is capable of, his figure appearing lankier than ever before.

She feels both sick and exhilarated, more so sick from the excitement and awe than sick from Death. He breaths, he lives. There is no taking of life.

“Why?” she asks.

The court steadily falls quiet with that one question. Most are standing. Uncle Iolaus looks as though he’d been holding Deianira back from launching herself between Thanatos and her daughter. Glenus stands halfway between them and Macaria, positioned to attack if need be, but he reads his sister well and he can see she is more curious than afraid. And it strikes fear in him, fear not of Death but of Macaria and her curiosity and what it could mean.

“I work closely alongside the Moirai Sisters,” he says loud enough for all to hear but directs it all to Macaria. “They’ve given me a glimpse of your future, and while it’s confidential, I’m very interested in ensuring it plays out.”

“Don’t _I_ need to know?” Macaria asks.

“No,” he says icily, and his words crawl across her skin with a chill, raising goose flesh. “Not even I know the Fate of anyone else, or the full extent of yours. Even so, no human or other god needs to know.”

Anger and frustration well up in Macaria. She has been waiting for Mors’s—Thanatos’s—revelation for what feels like months and the worst two weeks of her life have seemingly stretched on for a whole year. Her inconsiderately polyamorous father is dead (or at least the human part of him is), her mother having killed him out of jealousy for her soon to be brother’s wife. They crossed the gulfs with winds that tossed ships around and traveled in the back of a wagon hot as fire. And now for a god to infer her Fate holds some kind of weight, it’s too much.

Macaria’s legs give out. Thanatos grabs her arms as she falls against him. His eyes fly open with worry. Glenus is suddenly by the god’s side, his fear for her outweighing his fear of him. Macaria turns away from Thanatos and wraps her arms around her brother, letting his presence wash over her and comfort her as she begins to cry. She can’t help it. She has been holding it in for a week now. The rage pours out, streams down her cheeks.

“Macaria and those who came with her will stay here in Athens,” Thanatos tells everyone. “I may come and visit.” He looks to Macaria. He is handing the reigns to her.

Part of Macaria hates him for it: Thanatos gives them to her only once she is weak. But he has given them to her. And so, when she turns away from him, she knows by the relief that passes over everyone around that he has gone.

“No!” Deianira shrieks, rushing to her daughter. “Why?” She is panting and sobbing and clutching at Macaria as if she can’t believe that she’s really there. “Why? Why?” she utters, so soft and so desperate that it seems to be directed at no one and at the whole universe.

“I’d like to retire,” Macaria says.

Demophon orders for Macaria to be brought to her quarters. Two soldiers step forward and two more of those loyal to her. She clings to Glenus and holds Deianira’s hand as the soldiers form a square around them. Uncle Iolaus strides over to Demophon, intent on further discussing the future with the king and his council. No doubt Demophon and Iolaus have seen equally striking things happen in their lifetimes.

When they reach Macaria’s quarters, which share a door with her mother’s, Deianira embraces her daughter.

“Ria, I’m going to go to the temple for you,” she says. “I’m going to pray to Demeter and Athena to protect you. I’ll pray all night and all day until I know you’re safe.”

Demeter. Persephone’s mother. Mother-in-law to Hades. A fresh wave of tears fall, and Macaria squeezes her mother before letting her go. 

She walks into her room with Glenus.

“Tell them to stay outside the door,” Macaria says.

Glenus nods and conveys the orders as she goes to sit on her chest set by her bed. The soldiers nod and move to the corridor, shutting the door. Glenus sits beside his sister and wraps his arms around Macaria. She falls against him and cries and cries and cries.

Glenus loses track of time, only sees that it is getting late into the night. The ocean breeze brushes the curtains around. He watches them, holding Macaria close and quietly crying with her, until they turn into graceful dancing figures threatening to allow Hypnos to take over. His fear is strong, though, and sleep is nowhere near.

Finally, Macaria crying subsides and eventually stops altogether. She stays leaning against him. The tears are gone but numbness has yet to make a home of her. The terror lurks in the shadows and lingers in her veins. She remains attached to Glenus deep into the night through to the early morning when deep navy slowly turns to light indigo. Neither sleep, but the extreme exhaustion Macaria has pushed herself is distractive and allows a certain insensibility to wash over. She extracts herself from Glenus, peeling away like the skin of a fruit.

“What do I do?” she asks. Her voice cracks, her throat is raw.

“What is there to do?” he murmurs. “There is something big looming ahead. It’s cast its shadow, but I don’t think you’ll be able to ignore it.”

“If I stay here forever, maybe I can.”

“I mean I don’t think it’s in you. You were the first to speak up against father’s countless lovers, saying it would only cause drama and problems. You loved him and criticized him equally, and I think it is partially because you don’t believe there is a choice between one or the other. Still, I can see how torn you feel whenever you look at Mother. She is both victim and villain to you. You’re one of few who will tell Hyllus to shut his mouth when he needs to hear it. It’s not in you to ignore anything.”

“I admit I want to talk to Thanatos. I want him to tell me more,” Macaria says. “He’s given me a taste of something men murder for but only the Moirai can truly have: knowing Fate. If it is anything like what father had to endure, I don’t think I can—”

Glenus grasps her hand to quiet her. “Macaria,” he says, “We don’t know what it is. Mor— _Thanatos_ said he didn’t even know everything. Perhaps talking to him will get you more answers. Whether or not it does, you will walk away with only more questions.”

The cool late morning breeze rustles the curtains. With smoke rising from far off, the lower part of the otherwise blue sky has turned a pale lilac over the orange lining the horizon. Macaria stands, her legs feeling more like noodles than limbs made of muscle and bone and walks over to her window. Glenus and Macaria lean against either side of the window. Acropolis overlooks Athens, allowing those who make the trek a clear view of the sea. Fishermen are already out on their boats. Shops are beginning to open or be set up for opening. Early rising Athenians roam the streets, marked white by their chitons.

“I want to talk with him,” Macaria says decisively. “When should—”

A rustling outside the door catching their attention. One of the guards enters, but Macaria sees past that Thanatos heard her. He stands before the soldiers with patience in his eyes and excitement written all over his face.

“Let him in,” Macaria tells the soldiers and they move aside. She gives Glenus a meaningful look, and though does so begrudgingly, he acquests and leaves her room with the soldiers.

Thanatos enters the room, and the door is shut. He is dark divinity embodied before Macaria with his ochre hair and dark wings. He folds his wings inward and they disappear. He immediately appears less imposing and glides over to stand beside Macaria at the window.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he tells her. “But you mentioned my name, so I had to be sure you weren’t summoning me.”

“Mortals cannot just summon gods.”

“You’re not just a mortal.”

“What am I?”

Thanatos brushes his knuckles against her cheek, his head tilting. His eyes, a dark yellow-brown from afar, are not unlike honey up close. Macaria is afraid she’ll drown in the sticky substance if she’s not careful.

“The Moirai said there is a young woman of Calydon, a daughter of Heracles, who will be to you unlike anyone you’ll have known,” he says, his fingers brushing her cheeks where there are dried tears. His touch is cool but not cold.

“Have you known many people?” she asks.

Thanatos chortles. It’s airy and light. “Yes and no,” he replies. “I’ve met many in passing. I know very few intimately, most reside below.”

“Answer me this honestly,” Macaria says. “Will my mother have the same Fate as Demeter?”

Thanatos goes rigid. His shoulder square and his hand drops to her collarbone. She takes his hand.

“Is my Fate the same as Persephone’s?” she asks firmly.

“I don’t really know,” he admits, leaning forward with the slightest trace of menace. It is just enough to warn. “Would it be so bad if it was?”

“I will want to see my family.”

“Persephone is allowed visits.”

“I want to be able to see them when I want!”

“They drive you mad,” he hisses. “Not just one but two brothers have cursed you and it is one of them that you turn to for comfort.”

“Even so.”

Thanatos lifts her hand by the wrist, inspecting it. “Death is not usually understood to its full extent,” he says. He places her hand in his and with his other hand uses his finger to trace the lines of her palm. “It comes and goes. It’s not for me or the Keres to decide—”

“Your sister?”

“Yes.”

It is a strange thing to realize you are in some way like the goddesses of violent deaths. The goddesses who are likened to harpies and daemon. Goddesses who hold power over man. It is not just terrifying, it is terror. It is not just powerful, it is power.

“I come like my brother, Hypnos,” Thanatos says, squeezing Macaria’s hand in his two. “I come like an everlasting sleep, and I go wherever whenever. I am not bound in the same way that Hades is.”

Macaria’s heart trills as she pulls her hand from him. Disappointment and hurt flash in his eyes, but he does not push her or mock her. She puts her hands on the sides of his face and pulls him to her to kiss him. She wants a taste; she wants to know what Death tastes like. She expects to taste stale river water or bile and disease or sadness and mourning. She is greeted instead by the gentleness of a ghost walking through her and the softness of a chick’s feather and the movement of a slow, crawling brook.

Macaria is sure to pull away before she drinks too much of the water. It could be as dangerous as Persephone’s fruit.

The Acropolis in modern Greece with Mount Lycabettus/Lycabettus Hill in the background

Ker or Poena, Lucanian red-figure krater circa 4th B.C.


	11. Death's Whore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING vague/not-so-explicit sex scene included 
> 
> I'm not a great smut writer and I don't plan on this story getting kinky BUT please review tags every once in a while (I do update as I go) and check beginning notes for potential warnings to make sure you aren't getting into anything you don't want to (goes without saying: hateful comments will be deleted)

As Death, there is a natural thrill that would come with being his lover, but she has seen what unchecked excitement can do to love. She lost interest in passionate affairs long ago, growing up witness to her father and all his protege sons. As Death, he is gentle. He waits instead of pushes or pulls. He is not his sisters, there is nothing violent about his Death. He could easily trick her into believing he is nothing like her father and she could easily remain blind like her mother, but she cannot deny that she is not familiar with a gentle, kind Death. She grew up around warriors, around Heracles and his cultish followers and lovers. Life was not usually simple, and people were not usually genuinely kind or of the gentle sort. Macaria is the youngest of a line of children from various lovers, some known and some abandoned; there was no choice. There was only survival through strength. Where she could not rely on brute skill, she found strength elsewhere.

Thanatos’s hand rests on the side of her neck and his thumb runs back and forth over her cheek until Macaria looks out over the waking city. The hand that had gripped his arm falls away to her side.

“Am I allowed to stay here?” Macaria asks, still concerned over her Fate as a potential Persephone 2.0.

“Wherever, whenever,” Thanatos says.

“Why would the Moirai tell you about me?”

“Perhaps I moped in their working space for one too many centuries.” He smiled, and his eyes shone with mirth. “However, I would visit with the Keres or by myself when someone near died. With your father, my sisters and I remained nearby all month. The Moirai knew, but it was my decision after seeing you with your maids or with the townspeople, and how you danced the line between avoiding the rampant drama surrounding you and sticking up for others or calling liars, liars. It was your actions, your ability to see and treat all as the same.

“Some say Death is the Great Equalizer, though they will tell others there are specific places for certain types of people. It’s far better to be more like you than. . . some other kinds of people, let’s say.”

Macaria allows herself a small smile, and Thanatos kisses her temple.

“I believe you missed the times I threw my brothers out of temples when we were but children and chased my father down the palace stairs as a youth, screaming for all to hear, and when I threw wine on the corrupt, perverted politicians.”

“ _I believe_ they got what they deserved, and I was entertained by how alike and different we are in our judgements of people. All I do is take a soul from their body so it may travel below, but you can see their soul. You listen to their words but you pay even more attention to their actions. We see them for who they are, not their wealth or titles or family or superficial rewards.”

Macaria scoffs. Thanatos is just as smooth lipped as mortal men. Thinking words will draw her to him.

“Right,” he says as if he heard what she was thinking. “Should we discuss an arrangement, a schedule, or shall I visit when I please?”

Macaria whirls on Thanatos. She opens her mouth but looking into his face is an abrupt reminder that he is Death. Perhaps the gentlest love is the worst, the trickiest and most cunning. Perhaps it is the kind that you drink like ambrosia, blind to the consequences because of its sweetness. She wants to slap Thanatos. She wants to slap herself.

“You’re angry,” he says, reading her flushed face and furrowed brow with ease.

Macaria crosses her arms to keep her hands to herself. “I do not wish to be treated like a consort or whore.”

“I can’t stay with you always,” Thanatos says. His voice takes on a whiny tone and it irks her.

“Does Ares travel for war or Zeus for every storm or Aphrodite for every single love story, real or fake?” she bites out, refusing to look at Thanatos. She’s afraid to find out how sticky and sweet his honey eyes can be.

“No,” he murmurs. “Do you want me to stay?”

“I _don’t_ want you to see me just for propositions. If I was looking for something as simple as sex, I would still be with my last lover or have found another already!”

Thanatos doesn’t reply for several minutes. She can sense rage radiating off of him like heat from a fire. Her own fury steels her and she turns to face him. His anger rolls off of him at such a rate it’s palpable in the chill morning air. She shivers but stands her ground.

Taking his silent anger as his answer, Macaria storms towards the door. Thanatos appears suddenly before her so that she runs straight into him.

“I’ll scream,” she threatens and steps away from him.

Thanatos steps towards her. Their gazes lock. Macaria cannot break away. He is there, surrounding her, all around. She is breathing in the morning air and Death. It does not smell of sickness, but it spreads like a virus. Sage and parsley invade her sense so that her eyes sting and her nose itches. Running does not even cross her mind. She backs up as he moves forward until her back hits the far wall of the window.

“If I wanted nothing more than a lover for sex, I would have picked a nymph,” Thanatos whispers lowly and stops three feet away from her. “If you are looking for an out, say so and I’ll leave. I’m not here for a nymph but if you are unwilling, I’ll go.”

Macaria nods as she strings her own thoughts together. She wants to keep him here forever and never let him go. Even as she tries to squash down the idea, it bubbles up through the cracks in her will. She wants to believe him. Perhaps this is what the Moirai were referring to. She just wishes her Fate or supposed greatness did not equate to Death’s lover or wife.

“So?” Thanatos prompts. “Do you need time to think, should I go. . .?”

Macaria catapults herself off of the wall, surprising Thanatos, but when she kisses him again, he is eager. Her hands lift to feel the hair that matches his eyes. It is as soft as his touches. His hands graze her face, neck, shoulders, arms, back. He kisses her more fervently as though trying to test her and confirm that his is indeed her answer. She drops her hands to his shoulders, grasping at his butterfly pin. He jerks back.

“You said—”

“I like to make sure all aspects of a relationship are fitting before wholly deciding.”

Thanatos laughs. “That is both terrifying and comforting.”

Macaria grins and unfastens his pin, his chiton pooling at their feet. She runs her hands down his torso until he groans against her and grinds into her. His hands move all over her, unclasping her brooch and untying her strophion. His feels like ice that burns. The chill makes her more desperate for the heat. She presses against him and moans when his hand drops between her legs.

When Macaria cries out and spends, Thanatos guides her to the bed, kissing her neck to also look behind her. His hand bracing her back, they fall inelegantly onto the kline bed. She pushes him down, letting his hair splay around his head like a halo. His fair skin is flushed, and he smiles up at her.

Macaria flips around to take him and him, her. He gasps for her to stop before he can finish, and she flips around once more. He sits up so their fronts press and grind, kissing her jaw. He offers support as she lowers and he enters slowly. He is as gentle as ever, murmuring and asking if she is okay, but in the end, he is more afraid of breaking than of breaking her. She will be his Death.

Macaria lays on her stomach under the sunlight, soaking up its warmth. Thanatos stirs beside her, curling up around her. She has never been with someone so considerate; she is afraid her own selfishness took over and took advantage. She is afraid that she took and took so much that it left her distracted from him entering her veins.

Thanatos strokes her dark hair. “Like bronze.”

“And yours is gold,” she harrumphs enviously.

He lays partially on her side. “Is it?” he asks sardonically, and she swats him without thinking.

There is a split second of horror—of what he could do with the blink of an eye—that flashes through her mind when he lets out his airy laugh and she is sure she is safe.

“Like a god,” she says and turns over.

Thanatos kisses her ear, the nearest part of her to him. His only respond to her remark is a grunt, but her own words leave her reeling in her new reality. She tenses and, feeling it, he pulls back.

“A minor one,” he jokes, but when she doesn’t lighten up, he frowns. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I wanted to be remembered for influencing society or politics for the better,” Macaria says. She looks to the window and its light, billowing curtains. It’s late morning.

“You still can,” Thanatos says. He props his head up, his forearm resting on the bed. “People will talk of us, of course, but that doesn’t mean that has to be the only thing they say about you.”

“What if we keep it private?” she asks.

“Is it possible?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. She can see in his credulous eyes that what she wants, he wants. “I want it to be.”

“I want it to be just us,” he whispers in such a soft voice it’s almost inaudible. “Too much could happen. I don’t want the other gods involving themselves, they are too much of selfish, hawkish politicians to let us live in peace.”

Macaria runs her hand down his arm in a coaxing manner. “So long as we are true and loyal.”

Thanatos kisses her slowly and deeply. He shifts to hover over her. He is afraid to let her go, afraid that she will run and never return because she realizes she has no need for him.

Someone bangs against the door. Macaria jerks awake, having dozed off with Thanatos by her side under the afternoon warmth. Deianira bursts through their shared door, and Thanatos instinctually throws an arm in front of Macaria.

“You!” Deianira yells and she rushes at Thanatos. She is screaming and crying. She grabs him by the hair until he’s able to wriggle out of her grasp and grab her hands. “What’ve you done? You’ve killed her! You’ve killed her!”

Macaria lets go off her mother at those words. “What do you mean?” she asks.

Deianira puts trembling hands on the sides of Macaria’s face. Thanatos uses the opportunity to get away from the crazed mother. The soldiers must have heard Deianira enter, because Macaria’s four guards stand before the threshold, hesitating at the sight of Thanatos.

“Ria,” Deianira says. “What’ve you done?”

Macaria shoves her mother aside and covers herself. Thanatos does the same, slipping in his chiton.

“You don’t understand what you’ve done,” Deianira cries, shaking her daughter. She grabs Macaria’s wrist and tugs her towards the guards.

“Stop!” Macaria shouts.

Deianira falls against her daughter. “What’ve you done?” she murmurs. “Don’t be like me, my daughter. Don’t become another Persephone or another Penelope. Learn from me, learn from Demophon.”

Macaria moves before she even realizes what she’s done. Then her mother lays at her feet, sobbing with a hand over one reddening cheek. Macaria kneels down, shaken.

“Stop,” Macaria whispers to her mother. “Even before I knew him as Mors, he treated me well. He can give me the independence and love I want, Mother.”

Deianira’s head bows as her tears spill silently. “You could have been so much more,” she croaks after a moment.

Macaria’s teeth grind. “I know,” she says, “but now I will do all those things and happen to have Death by my side. No one will cross me, Mother. Not even you. No mortal could give me that. Not even men like father could offer me that.”

Deianira weeps on the ground. Macaria stands, stepping around her mother and dismisses the guards with a wave. “My mother has a tendency for the flair of dramatic,” she says. “Go back to your posts.”

Stealing wary glances of Thanatos in the corner, standing there like a foreboding marble statue, they leave.

Macaria strides over to Thanatos and hugs him. “You should leave for now,” she says. “Until things settle.”

Thanatos opens his mouth. Nothing comes out, and he closes it as though deciding against what he wants to say.

“Will you talk to my father?” she whispers in his ear. “I don’t expect anything from him, but just see what he or any of the gods can do about King Eurystheus.”

Thanatos nods. “If you need anything, just call for me,” he says. “Good luck, Macaria.” He swoops down and kisses her, but even as he does, there is nothing for her to hold onto. Nothing there to root her and ground her; he’s disappeared.

Deianira stands. She shivers like she is standing in snow in the dead of winter. Macaria dips her head to avoid her mother’s reproving and blaming and hurt gaze. Under the scrutiny of that gaze, she dresses quickly before rushing out of her own quarters. Two of the guards follow her to the court hall. She looks around at the men.

“Where is the king?” she asks.

An older man with a short, white beard stands. “He’s gone to pray to our goddess, he’ll be gone until nightfall,” he says.

“Thank you. And my brother, Glenus?”

“Here.” A hand raises among a group of men, half Athenian and half Calydonian. Glenus steps away from the group and she runs to him. His arms are open, but her slap echoes through the hall. It falls silent. No one moves.

“Next time at least be brave enough to stick the knife from the front,” she snarls.

Glenus grabs her wrist and twists. Macaria half-grimaces, trying not to show how much it hurts.

“Everyone knows what he’s turns you into,” he retorts, holding her in place with just the twist of a wrist. He could break it and they both know it. “You, Macaria, talk a great talk, but in the end, you are all the same. You will be just another Iole using her beauty to get what she wants and you both will become just another Deianira, driven insane by what you’ve allowed yourself to choose.”

Macaria wishes she had stashed her knife in her chiton. She never would be able to hurt him, but imaging presses the cold metal to his neck and making him let her go is vengefully satisfying. Instead, Glenus shoves her away from him.

“You’ve done this to yourself,” he sneers loudly for all to hear as she angrily dashes away the tears at the corners of her eyes before they can fall. He turns and utters, “They always do. We used to agree on that.”

Unable to bear being torn apart by the wolves, most of which sit and watch the alpha, any longer, Macaria turns and flees. She strides quickly through the citadel, past the columns and rooms and into the open courtyard. Iole is laying out under the sun with several onlookers gathered several yards away.

“Iole,” Macaria says once she’s reached the naked, tanning women.

Iole opens her eyes and sighs. “I heard you have become Death’s Whore,” she remarks. “I admits, it’s rather unexpected, but I have to warn you, I’m not sure your mother will survive another blow.”

“You heard wrong,” Macaria says. “I want to know why and how you put up with it. I want to tear them all down.”

“ _That_ sounds like you.” Iole smirks and sits up, stretching. “As for your question, who knows? Why question it? I’d much rather bask in the sun than be in such a state. We’re not Spartans, stop trying to act like it or turn your world into something that it’s not. Our men stay at home, we don’t need more and if we push for me, we will end up like your mother or like you.”

“Many other city-states treat their women as Sparta does,” Macaria says. “You just don’t know because you were not given the option to learn how to read.”

Admonishing herself for being so desperate as to go to Iole, Macaria marches away. She is stopped by the guards at the citadel entrance on top of the stairs.

“Where are your escorts?” one asks.

Macaria half-screams at him, and he looks as though a wild animal has just tried to bite him out of nowhere for no reason.

“Let me through,” she demands, infuriated.

The guards exchange whispers. She hears Thanatos’s name and sees red. She doesn’t bother to correct them; they wouldn’t understand. They fear Death, they don’t care for her. She marches past her and they don’t try to stop her. Macaria runs down the steps and into the city.

[_Sleep and his Half-brother Death,_ John William Waterhouse, 1874](https://useum.org/artwork/Sleep-and-his-Half-brother-Death-John-William-Waterhouse-1874)

Thanatos as a winged and sword-girt youth. Sculptured marble column drum from the Temple of Artemis at Ephesos, c. 325–300 BC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No historical points this time (if I ever miss something or you have a question, lmk and I'll try to answer it to the best of my non-expert abilities!), but I did find this video of an academic/scholarly attempt to reconstruct what ancient Greek music may have sounded like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hOK7bU0S1Y
> 
> And this one of 2-hour Greek harp music (can't speak to the scholarly backing of it, though): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRYYG5E0E3I
> 
> Some basics on Thanatos to go along with the images: https://www.theoi.com/Daimon/Thanatos.html


	12. The Lekythos

Macaria runs until she can’t breathe and has grown used to the stares people throw her way, then she walks and walks and walks. Afternoon turns to late evening. She ignores every merchant and shopkeeper she passes until one shop catches her eye. It is tiny with a home on top. Inside, herbs hang from the ceiling and jars sit on the shelves. The matron comes forward to greet her.

“Hello, dear—Oh! My lady,” she greets. “Hello, welcome. Thank you for visiting my shop. It’s not much. Please let me know what you’d like. First item is free for you.”

“Thank you,” Macaria says. “What is in your jars?”

“Secrets,” the woman says with a smile. “Good secrets filled with luck. Have you run out of luck? What kind? Pick the jar that attracts you. It will be determined by Fate, it will be what you need.”

Most jars were pyxis and amphora, some pelike and pithos, and a handful vases(1). Some are made of cockle and clamshells, most of clay. Macaria reaches for a shiny black pyxis when the art of a white lekythos(2) catches her eye. More of the white lekythos line the shelf, she notices. Each depicts death in its various stages in various circumstances. She continues to follow the trail of white lekythos.

“Where did you get these?” Macaria asks.

“Oh, they appear sometimes.”

Macaria looks back at the woman. “Do you know who brings them?”

The woman smiles but otherwise doesn’t answer. “Look, look,” she encourages. “Go further. You will feel drawn to one.”

Macaria walks further into the shop. It’s far larger than it appears from the outside, one long, narrow path. The air cools the further she goes into the shop as it darkens and the sun sets. She relies on the candle the shopkeeper carries with her, following a few feet behind Macaria.

White lekythos turn to marble. Figures are carved and etched into the containers with the same precision and care given to temple statues. Her walk slows as she inspects each one she passes with as much respect as the one who carved them would have: a family gathered, a daughter clasping her father’s hand as her mother presents a small bird to her younger sister, Aristomache seeing her family and family servants off before she must travel to Hades, Kallisthenes and her mother mourning her dying father as he passes, a bride and her attendant, a man with his servant and dog, various scenes of a family saying good-bye to family, young and old alike, some old warriors and some young, most including a variation of one sitting figure around others standing.

Macaria stops. There is a low relief etching of a woman on the ground with a man standing over her with a sword. A winged man stands behind the woman sitting.

“I’d like this one?” Macaria says.

“Just one?” asks the woman. “Most people like to take two. Just in case.”

“I’d like this one.”

“You’re funeral,” the woman shrugs. She takes the lekythos down for Macaria and walks back down the narrow shop path. “I am a woman of my word. The first is free.” When they get to the front of the shop, the woman hands the lekythos over to Macaria. It’s cold and heavy. The inside is dark, and she isn’t sure if it’s the poor lighting or because there is nothing actually in there. Either way, it’s free. Macaria thanks the woman, who responds with her usual smile.

When Macaria steps out of the store, it’s night. The sky is a murky blue speckled with stars and the pale moon. She trudges through the streets and up the stairs back to Acropolis, resting the lekythos on her hip. No one is dying but she hopes by walking through the city and through parts of the citadel, people will talk about the funeral lekythos she carried around and will force people to respect her, even if it is a mere false pretense.

At the top of the stairs, the citadel stands grand and imposing before her. She wishes she was powerful enough to knock it down. Maybe then she would be respected without evoking Thanatos’s name. She’d evoke her own creations of Death when people spoke her name.

She walks through the citadel to the Parthenon(3), brushing past each patrol pair and nodding to each warrior, man, woman, servant in turn. They don’t look at her, though, but her funeral lekythos. They walk around her, steering clear, and some manage to dip their heads at the last minute.

Macaria goes to speak to the one woman respected in this city. She goes to Athena’s Parthenon. A colonnade hoists up the majestic marble and limestone. Decorative metopes line the top, depicting the Gigantomachy, the war between the gods and the giants. Macaria enters the Parthenon. He naos’s high relief frieze depicts a procession. Priests and priestesses, horsemen, children, musicians, and sacrificial animals alike can be seen traveling the upper temple walls.

Macaria walks up to the statue, a step for an alter covered by offerings. She puts her lekythos on it and raises her hands, palms facing the sky.

“Goddess of Courage and Wisdom,” she breathes out as she prays, trying to calm her nerves and focus her mind. “Athena, Daughter of Zeus, the one evoked by many and loved by all, whose strength and power melt mountains, I pray you’ll listen for one so small. Clear-eyed and bright-minded, grant me the necessary reason and clarity to see my path. War Maiden, Feared Warrior, give me the courage to what I must do and what needs to be done. Protect me as I remain within your City of Athens, Athena, help me, guide me, _please_.”

Macaria stays in her position of prayer to Athena for as long as she can hold it without growing restless and irreverent. She steps back and lowers her hands to her sides as soon as she does, afraid to disrespect the goddess. The statue before her towers around twelve meters. The snakes look down at her. Athena herself stares ahead as though looking into the future, as though she can see it and knows it.

Macaria follows her gaze to the night horizon, a blurred line where the city sleeping cast in black meets the deep, blue, freckled sky. Not wanting to bother Athena further out of fear that it may pester the goddess and she may toss aside Macaria’s pleadings quicker, Macaria thanks the goddess and leaves the temple.

In her quarters, Macaria lays on her kline. The smells of sex and Thanatos linger; stale sweat, body odor and fluids, and a mild, earthy musk. She lights incense she finds in one of the bedroom chests and replaces the throw blanket given to her by Demophon’s servants with the ones her mother had packed for her. It smells of home, the spices and foods, the river air. It’s both morose and comforting, lulling her to sleep. Her last thought is of whether Athena heard her and will help her.

Macaria is jolted awake by Pelagia. The maid is stricken, her eyes wide.

“Macaria,” she says, “King Eurystheus has arrived! He’s meeting with King Demophon and his council now.”

Macaria throws on her clothes and rushes to the court.

“They are here, already?” she asks as they run through the palace. “How long have they been here?”

Pelagia flushes. “A little while,” she answers vaguely. “I was told not to tell you, but I just couldn’t.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank Hyllus. He arrived last night with some of your family and their men. Without them, there would be no hope.”

Macaria is the only other woman besides her mother, Iole, and Demophon’s harem. She shoved her feelings aside and goes to stand by Iole and her mother. She acknowledges only her brothers Oneites and Ctesippus. She’s not sure the other two would recognize her with how big their heads have blown out of proportion recently. Oneites’s eyes widen, and he looks away from her quickly. Ctesippus’s head dips to his side, and she steps over to him.

“You good?” he whispers.

She could cry and hug him, but the court is quiet and calm, and everyone is stealing glances her way. She nods and smiles weakly up at him and it is impossible not to see their father in his handsome, kind face. She’d almost forgotten how her father adored her much of the time, he’d been away when Deianira sent him the poisoned cloak, and Macaria didn’t see him again until he was on the pyre and Zeus’s bolt struck his body, disintegrating it. But now with the one brother that could most easily be compared to Heracles, she remembers.

Macaria remembers when she fell when she was small, and he soothed her for much longer than anyone else would have had the patience for. She remembers when she clung to his back or sat upon his shoulders and he carried her throughout the Calydon through the markets. She remembers how he taught her how to swim and basic defense, things girls didn’t learn, in case she should need it when she married, left the family, and her husband would be away at war. She remembers how he never batted an eye at the idea of hydras or chimera or at the mention of many gods’ names, but he always spoke of Zeus with the utmost admiration. He spoke of war with a tired but proud tone. She remembers him visiting home for a night before having to leave for another trial. He would tell her what happened in detail; she was old enough to understand by then. His eyes were sunken in and his skin, dull from exhaustion, but nevertheless, he would be gone in the morning. Until one day he returned home half-dead looking more like a corpse than the great warrior and strongman he was.

Ctesippus puts an arm around her shoulders as everyone stirred at movement at the court entrance. King Eurystheus walks through the threshold and into the center of the court, smirking.

“My cousin Herakles may have killed his own first family, but I intend to kill his second,” the king says. “Now, Demophon, if you don’t want war, hand them over.”

The court erupts into a shouting match.

“Hand them over!”

“They’re not worth dying for!”

“Would you condemn us for them?”

“He only wants them after his humiliation!”

“Coward!”

Hyllus steps forward, and the men fall to quiet murmurs amongst themselves. “Even if you sent your army against us, my siblings and I, all of the Heracleidae, would still defeat you! We are Heracles’s sons and daughters. We’ve inherited his strength and bravery. Even my sisters were taught things you would never dare teach your own daughters.”

“Unfortunately, I see only _one_ here,” says King Eurystheus, gesturing dismissively at Macaria. “And I am not talking to you, boy. Your father had strength, not wit. He did, after all, kill his own family; I’m surprised you all are still alive. Demophon, I will give you a day. If I don’t receive a message by morning, I will attack.”

King Eurystheus and his soldiers leave, and once more the court erupts into men trying to scream over one another.

“Quiet!” Demophon yells, and they fall quiet. The king walks over to Hyllus and puts his hands onto Hyllus’s shoulders. “It is your turn now, Hyllus. I know your father had you well trained, I want you leading as my general.”

Hyllus drops to one knee and bows his head. Macaria looks at Iole and finds his brother’s wife to be unperturbed by the idea of her husband going into battle and potentially never returning. For all Hyllus has done to become the next greatest warrior, for all the torture he’s inflicted on Macaria growing up, the dread weighs like a heavy stone in her gut. Deianira holds her chin up proudly as she watches her eldest son, even with worry written across her furrowed brow.

“I must see the oracle,” Demophone says. “Hyllus, I leave you in charge of the men with General Acacius. He will tell you everything you need to know to prepare. Additionally, the council is here to provide any advice you may need; they will take care of the people.”

“Thank you.” Hyllus, now standing, nods.

“By the time I get back, half of our allotted time will have passed,” Demophon warns Hyllus. “Use it wisely.”

“I will.”

“I want my five best with me,” says Demophon and his soldiers listen intently. “Waterskins, make sure they eat beforehand. No heavy armor or weapons. We will need to travel quickly and lightly.”

Two of his soldiers, including the one called Acacius, bow and leave, race out of the court. Demophon stands and marches out, spouting orders. Macaria leaves the court quickly, already feeling some of the men’s gazes shifting towards her. Her family is distracted by Hyllus’s new position of power; only Ctesippus follows once he has congratulated his brother. He jogs over to walk with her towards her quarters.

“You won’t call on him for help?” he asks.

“What can he do?” she says. “He doesn’t take our life from us. It leaves us, and then he separates soul from body so that the soul may travel below.”

“Oh. I had never thought of it like that. He must be everywhere at once, then. There is a lot of death for a god who works without worship. Sounds tiring and thankless. . .. What are you going to do?”

“I’ve prayed to Athena for my own protection,” Macaria says. “I’ll do the only thing I can do—go back to the Parthenon and pray ceaselessly for everyone.”

Macaria opens her doors, glad the soldiers have left their posts outside of her door. They all have greater problems, and she values her privacy.

“What are you going to do now?” he asks.

“Honestly, I haven’t bathed for days,” she says, opening the chest to find her peplos. “I’m going to wash and then go to Athena’s Temple.”

“I will leave you to it,” he says and kisses her hand. “Be careful, Macaria.”

“Everyone will be distracted from me if they know what’s important,” she says and grips his hand tightly, wrapping both of hers around his one. “It will be you and all those who fight who need to be careful, Ctesippus.”

Ctesippus nods in agreement. “I’ll be careful, but don’t forget to care for yourself.”

“Hyllus doesn’t call me selfish for no reason,” Macaria says snarkily as he walks backwards to her door.

Ctesippus leaves her with a smile. Macaria leaves soon after to the common bath. With everyone running around preparing or praying, the bath is virtually empty with a couple of unfamiliar faces. Macaria uses the time to soak. She sits along the edge and shuts her eyes, counting her breath and focusing on relaxing each muscle. She wants to forget traveling, she wants to forget King Eurystheus, she wants to forget the oncoming war, she wants to forget that what will bring him back to her is and always will be Death. He will come to her when there is loss, and one day she will not be able to separate the two—love and loss. They will become intertwined passions, like lovers who kiss and rock against one another and entangle so deeply there is no telling whose limb is whose.

[Lekythos of Thanatos and Hypnos](https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/G_1876-0328-1) carrying a dead warrior by [The Thanatos Painter](https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/term/BIOG60792)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) "A Visual Glossary of Greek Pottery" - https://www.ancient.eu/article/489/a-visual-glossary-of-greek-pottery/ 
> 
> (2) Description of lekythoi (more in depth than the link above) - https://www.beazley.ox.ac.uk/tools/pottery/shapes/lekythos.htm  
> They are associated with death because of their usage in funeral rites (hence the funeral joke) and having been found in ancient Greek cemeteries. I chose to use a lekythos for this reason, but also because I found one portraying Thanatos, who is rarely portrayed in Greek art (probably out of fear of invoking him): https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/G_1876-0328-1
> 
> (3) Description of the Parthenon - https://www.reed.edu/humanities/110Tech/Parthenon.html
> 
> Image: https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/G_1876-0328-1  
> The Thanatos Painter: https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/term/BIOG60792  
> Another work by the Thanatos Painter: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/248679


	13. Athena's Peony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the increased engagement!! Like wow, just at ch. 10 we had 100 hits and now we're hitting 200?? This AO3 stuff is wild (in a great way). This means a lot and is very affirming as a writer who generally keeps her writing very private! Thank you all so much!! I really hope you'll continue to enjoy :)
> 
> For those invested in this a little extra or for those feeling torn/uncertain about (my approach as the author regarding) Macaria's decision, please check out the endnotes for this chapter. Respecting her agency and beliefs (however fictional) was/is important to me. Feel free to lmk what you think

Macaria leaves the bath. Death will bring Him to her. Death. It could be her brothers who are next. He could take them from her. He may not be the reason they are dead, but he will separate their souls from their bodies and send them to Hades, where they will live in limbo for all eternity.

She dries herself and throws a loose tunic over her body before withdrawing to her room. She should go to the temple and pray, but she has nothing to offer the goddess that’s worthy. She has already given away her greatest treasure, as soon as she got it and for selfish reasons. 

Macaria fishes through her chest until she finds her jewel necklace. It was a gift. She can’t give away a gift. She continues digging through her things and searching the room. But even all the gold in the world would not be enough. Macaria bends over one of the other chests in her room, hanging her head.

_What does it matter._

She changes back into her peplos and leaves for the temple. The closer she gets, the clearer it becomes that it will be crowded. People are still filing towards it. Unintelligible praying and shouting get louder and louder.

A speckle of pink catches Macaria’s eye. A peony grows from the ground. Its center is the color of a canary, surrounded by a rich, vibrant pink that crawls up the veins of its soft pink petals.(1) It is not the season or the flower, and yet there it is. Macaria bends down, caresses the delicate petals, and breaks it from the stem. She cups the flower head in her two palms and carries it to the temple, weaving through warriors and their families. It smells of sweat and incense so strongly that Macaria’s head swims.

Worshippers place their offerings, which have been piled on top of one another and are wrapping around Athena’s statue, and step back for the next people to place theirs. Her lekythos pokes out from among the offerings by the goddess's feet. Athenians stand close together, murmuring and raising their hands in prayer. Mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, warriors too, young and old are crying as they pray for protection.

Macaria places her peony before the goddess and steps back before closing her eyes and lifting her palms in prayer. For now, this is all they can do.

The temple is overflowing with Athenian citizens into the late night and early morning. Young children are struggling not to fall asleep; for some, their parent’s palms are the only things keeping them awake. Elders hobble in and out, many unable to stay like that for too long. The more desperate fall to their knees, crying and begging. The more limber remain standing and praying, like statues except for their mouths. Priestesses continue to bring out incense, priests leading prayer rituals.

It will remain so until the warriors are called away, and people will remain praying until they have won. And if they lose, it will remain so until blood is spilled on the temple floor.

When Macaria grows dizzy and teeters on her feet, she leaves the temple for breakfast. Inside the citadel palace, someone runs into her and continues on as though they didn’t notice. People around her are striding forward. She sees them going into the court hall and follows.

King Demophon is back.

She jogs into court, finding those who have gathered already discussing. Demophon sits on his throne, Acacius and Hyllus stand on either side of him, Iolaus beside Hyllus. Everyone is yelling on top of one another, and Macaria strains to pick out phrases.

“A noblewoman? Just pick the first you can find, who cares if it means we are all spared?”

“Does she have to be a virgin? Pick a whore! Any will do.”

“Yes, how are your wife and her lover, Demetrius?”

One of the men shoves the other, but both are quickly separated by nearby soldiers.

Macaria finds Ctesippus near the base of the stairs, red-faced and screaming at Iolaus. “Father would not have stood for this! He would have challenged Eurystheus himself!”

“We are to respect the oracle or leave,” Iolaus snaps. “And I very much doubt your father would ever want you to put your life in danger so rashly.” 

“What’s going on?” Macaria asks.

Ctesippus runs a hand down his face. “Hyllus is being an ass and a coward!”

Macaria grabs his arm. “Ctesippus,” she says firmly. “You promised. Don’t do anything boneheaded.”

Ctesippus turns to Macaria finally. “The oracle spoke to the king,” he explains. “She called for a noble maiden to be sacrificed in Athena’s name. Only then will we be secured victory and our family safety.”

Macaria’s grip on her brother’s arm tightens.

“King Demophon suggests a lottery be drawn,” he adds. Macaria only hears him because he stands so close. She feels as dizzy as she did in the temple, like the incense has gone to her head. She releases Ctesippus’s arm mechanically and walks out of the court.

It could be anyone who is picked. She returns to Athena. She pushes her way to the front and stares at the gifts offered up to the goddess. Before Athena’s feet sits her funeral lekythos of marble. Her peony has been lost amongst the piles of offerings, likely trampled or squished against the hard flooring. She sinks to her knees, falling forward, and sobs.

“No, no, no,” Macaria whispers. “It can’t be.”

But one cannot fight Fate for it is Fate. It is predestined. It will happen. It _must_ happen. Her lover is Death—can’t he save her? Won’t he? But why would he? The Moirai told him of her Fate, he helped her along to it. He brought her closer to Death.

Macaria looks up, breathing deeply even as the tears flow. Nike’s wings protrude from her back; victory will soar. She stands and staggers up, shoving Athenians out of her path. She could scream at Thanatos. She could kill the Moirai. But she can’t do either. She doesn’t want to see Thanatos, and Fate is Fate. It cannot be killed, and it won’t be stopped. She goes back to court and marches to stand before King Demophon.

“I’ll do it,” she says and the men around her fall quiet.

Not even her brothers respond. It was the kind of silence that could give away a pin drop.

Demophon stands and takes his time in walking to Macaria. “Are you sure?” he asks as he walks.

“Yes,” she says. “It was foretold. I just wasn’t able to see it until now.”

A hulking man, he leans over to whisper. “If you are thinking of playing trickster, forget it. You would be putting everyone in danger.”

“Never bring Thanatos up in my presence again,” she says respectfully but lowly, turning to look Demophon in the eyes. “I make my own choices. This no longer has anything to do with him.”

Demophon’s eyes study her with pity. If he wasn’t a king, she would slap him. She almost does since she’s going to die anyway, but she hasn’t yet fully accepted that Fate and does not, as though it would have future implications that mattered.

Gasps echo through the quiet hall, and Demophon’s gaze lifts from her. She turns around, knowing who it is but not prepared for the rage that shoots through her at the sight of him.

“What’s going on?” Thanatos asks. He has read the room and alarm darkens his eyes.

“Your name was invoked, that’s all,” Macaria says.

Thanatos looks around at the councilmen and warriors. Ctesippus steps forward.

“She’s given herself up,” he says, and Macaria shoots him a deadly glare. 

Alarm turns to confusion then recognition then fear and anger and hurt, as though he is offended, as though he has been told he will be sacrificed.

“You can’t—” Thanatos starts.

“I’ve made my decision,” Macaria says flatly. “Please don’t insult me by telling me you had no idea.”

“I didn’t, Macaria!” He steps forward and grabs her by the arm. “You can’t.”

“What? Because you forbid it? _You_ led me to the lekythos!”

“No! The Keres, they will be the ones to take you, don’t you see? I can’t, I won’t let them, but I also won’t be able to do it myself if you pass this way. If you travel as a mortal to Hades, you will suffer the Fate of a mortal in the underworld, and you can’t, you can’t. You will be _stuck_.” His words aren’t statements, they’re pleas.

Macaria pulls her arm from him. “You won’t tell me what to do. No one does. This is my decision. It’s my _Fate_. You of all should understand that.”

“No, no I shouldn’t! You—”

“Leave,” Macaria orders. When Thanatos opens his mouth once more, she yells, “Leave, Thanatos!”

“Where’s the lekythos?” he asks more calmly, though his chest heaves like he’s having trouble breathing.

“With Athena.”

With a look of betrayal, Thanatos disappears. Behind where he stood, Ctesippus stares at her as though she has stabbed him. He says nothing, only looks at her with the same look Thanatos gave her. He knows she won’t listen, and he knows that if he tries to stop her, she will only push him away, and he knows tomorrow could be their last day together.(2 - plz read)

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

Mount Olympus sits above white clouds on the mountain top, making it look as though the city is floating. It’s bright and warm under Apollo’s sun but the clouds around and under keep the air comfortable. A smooth, stone path winds its way through. The city, leading to and from each temple until one reaches the Pantheon at the summit.

Thanatos flies along the path; it’s faster than running. At one point, he crosses over a break in the mountain. Travelers see nothing below. Mortals have jumped or fallen, expecting the clouds to save them, only to fall to their deaths. Bushes of ambrosia line the path every several yards on either side. Thanatos passes Hestia’s homey, earthen temple open to all; Hephaestus’s plain, simple temple of stone with no walls to allow for ventilation, his forgery at the center; Apollo’s lavish temple from which music spills in abundance (too much abundance for Thanatos’s taste); and Artemis’s elegant temple, it’s marble giving off an iridescent glow and its stylobate circulate as though carved from the moon.

Thanatos drops to his feet before a temple held up by statues of women. While Ares’s temple looks like an armory, Athena’s is lined with shelves of books and decorated by treasures and showcases achievements, whether of her own or through a proxy: various aegis skins and paintings of the Gigantomachy hang from the walls, while sculptures of her victories litter the open space from the head of a Gorgon to a fallen giant. A small portion of the temple is dedicated to the labors of Heracles: noisy krotala, one of the Golden Apples from the Garden of the Hesperides sitting upon a map of the world, and a tuff of Cerberus’s fur(3). No doubt Heracles’s new temple hoards all his other prizes.

“You’re later than I expected,” Athena says from behind, making Death jump.

“Don’t do that!”

“It’s not as though I could kill you from it.” Athena wears a purple peplos, a dagger at her waist. Her copper hair is braided and tied up. A snake coils around her arm, appearing nothing more than a fearsome piece of jewelry to the ignorant. Thanatos knows many more are lurking, watching and waiting with limitless patience to strike. She purposefully says no more.

“Will you help me or not?” he says.

“What have the Moirai told you?”

“That Macaria is to be by my side.”

“Then I don’t see how I can help.”

“Excuse me?”

“She has already been by your side, Thanatos,” Athena says with a cruel bluntness.

“She’s meant to always be there! If you don’t help, it will be a slight to the Moirai!”

Thanatos blinks, and the knife tip is grazing his nose. Athena stands with her arm extended, brandishing the weapon.

“Don’t threaten me,” she says and slips it back into place at her waist. “And don’t whine, it’s unbecoming for you. She’s gotten to you.”

“I’m not whining, I’m desperate, and of course she has!” he says. “If I lose her, I don’t see any chance of love for me! The underworld is a punishing place, even with Persephone’s touches. I’m telling you, it’s Fate. It has to happen. It will come to be no matter the means. At least this way the means will be less violent than the end. If you won’t help me, I’m going to Aphrodite and I’d much rather _not_.”

“Have you considered that in death she will be with you forevermore?” Athena walks around Thanatos, making him spin on his heels. Her fingertips skim over the apple frozen in time by Chronos so that it will never rot. “As of now, Macaria is mortal.” She picks up the apple and tosses it to Thanatos. “Zeus made it so his son, her father, will never die. I have made it so this apple will never age.”

Thanatos’s face reflects back at him in the golden skin. His brown eyes are haunted and sleepless, there is a glint in their golden reflection.

“Will you help her?” he whispers. “She has Persephone’s protection, but Persephone is still bound to the underworld at this time.”

“If Macaria follows her path, I will grant her something no one else will have the power to do, in addition to whatever Persephone bestows on her,” Athena promises. She walks over to him, gently taking the apple from him. “Now all you have to do is trust me and we both will have to see what she does, but you have to promise me something.” 

“What?”

“You will not interfere until I tell you.”

“I can’t even talk to her? Athena, if I don’t talk to her, she’s going to kill herself!”

Athena places the apple back onto the map. “If you don’t promise me and keep your word, you will lose her. You have already lost her trust. If you give me and keep your word, I will protect her, I promise, and she will learn the truth about the lekythos.”

“Did you give it to her?”

“No, Fate did,” she says brusquely. “Thanatos, do you promise?”

“Do you promise to protect her no matter what?”

“Yes.”

“Then. . . I promise not to interfere.”

Athena Peony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Paeonia Athena (Athena Peony) - see image - not sure that this hybrid flower would have existed back then (from what I can tell it's an unusual hybrid even now) but wanted to include it anyway, almost insinuating that this would have been its origin, like it was Fate that Macaria found it and offered it to the goddess, without getting all deus ex machina about it and its connection to the main conflict at hand 
> 
> (2) This scene of Macaria “accepting her Fate” had me reflecting on a lot when it comes to ancient Greek myths. When it comes to the sacrifice of a young maiden, it is not unusual for it to be the local lord/king/ruler’s daughter. Often there is a fight that ensues over whether it is “right or not,” and I’ve seen some scholars interpret this as them recognizing that human sacrifice was not exactly “civilized.” The daughter chosen typically stops the fight to be all *cue sexist damsel voice* “No, it’s ok! *I’ll* die for you all, like the dutiful daughter I am!” despite not wanting to die not long before making this decision as if she suddenly had some epiphany about what it means to embody a “good, loyal woman,” which is incredibly frustrating and makes it obvious that a man wrote it. The opening of the Iliad (more on it later) provides a great example of what I’m talking about with Agamemnon and his daughter Iphigenia and also has a lot of parallels when it comes to Macaria’s own story in Heracleidae (Children of Heracles, c. 430BC, an Athenian tragedy by Euripides). 
> 
> I wanted to keep to Macaria’s story in the play, which reflects this theme and was in fact written by a dude--though I got to give the man credit for writing works that sympathize for people who were underrepresented in Greek theater and was criticized for it; so, I guess one is meant to sympathize with characters with Macaria, which was novel and controversial at the time, even if her portrayal remains frustrating when we base it on today’s standards. Sometimes it takes baby steps, I guess. I also wanted to give her more agency and focus on the idea of choice while also respecting her belief in the idea of Fate as an ancient Greek, even if she is fictional, resulting in what you see in these scenes. I tried to put a ton of thought into how to portray this decision while also recognizing the contradictions from the POV/opinion that the Moirai and Fate and (pre)destiny don’t exist. These considerations are important going into the next chapter, too, when looking at Macaria as her own character/person and the narrator as another. 
> 
> (3) Reference to the Labors of Herakles/Hercules. More here: http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/Herakles/birds.html


	14. A Scapegoat, A Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, so I'm going to have a very busy weekend preparing for classes to start. Please don't expect updates this weekend (sorry). When I get back afterward, the updates are extremely likely to be posted every other week so that I can try and exercise some discipline for classes while also keeping up with two works in progress lol
> 
> Also, wow, I'm feeling very hopeful after this inauguration day. This is not to say that all my readers are American, but (in general from a progressive American's POV) it feels like a great day for womxn, esp. BIPOC women, given the representation put in place. What is crazy is looking at the chapter for this I have posted on inauguration day and the chapter I will soon post for Vampire King early 1/21/2021 PST; both deal with gender and sexuality issues head-on in ways that some of my other chapters deal with more subtly. I'm not really into the whole idea of Fate and I do not believe these chapters are representative of true BIPOC womxn's issues, but this coincidence (or whatever you personally believe it to be) does feel like something special to me. Celebrate and rest but please don't become complacent with the new admin, even if it is more diverse. Change for the better is in our hands :)

Back in Athens, Macaria has gone to the temple with her mother to pray. Her brothers stand before King Demophon but face one another.

“This is both immoral and uncivilized, ask any man!” Ctesippus yells at Glenus and Oneites, though only Glenus ever rejoins. “You lot are only upset because she fucked a god—”

“Oh, please!”

“—and you haven’t! How will you feel once she’s gone?”

“You may look like father, but you’re still a child!”

“ _You_ are avoiding the point, and Father would have fought to protect her just like he did Mother!”

“That was different, she was going to be murdered!”

“She made her choice! What can we do?” Oneites blurts out.

“Lock her up, hold her down, I don’t care, you little weasel!”

“Enough,” says Demophon. “I agree it’s uncivilized, but it’s what the oracle has called for. She will be saving many lives. You should be upset, but you should also be proud.”

Ctesippus steps up to the throne. Guards shoot forward, but Demophon holds up his hand, and they freeze. Ctesippus leans over the king.

“Do not tell me how I should be,” he snarls. “You’re no king of mine.”

“Your tongue will get you killed if you don’t keep it in check,” Demophon warns calmly.

“Better me than her.”

“You’re not a noblewoman,” Glenus scoffs.

Ctesippus whirls, unsheathing his sword and holds it against the side of his brother’s neck. “She trusted you most of all,” he says. “And look at where you are now. _Sniveling_ for her to _die_. Perhaps it was best Father leave us, who’d want a son like you?”

Glenus’s nostrils flare as he breaths deeply, his eyes grow cold.

“Stop,” Oneites says. “There’s nothing we can do now.” 

Ctesippus keeps the sword on Glenus’s neck but speaks to Oneites. “You’ll do anything to save your own skin. You’re spoiled, Oneites, spoiled so that you’ll never grow into a man.”

“Ctesippus,” warns Demophon. “You’re one of the best warriors among us. Lower the sword or I’ll have no choice but to lock you up.”

Ctesippus lowers his sword. “Don’t ever think flattery will get you anywhere with me,” he snarls at the king, “As my dearest brother Glenus has reminded you, I’m not my father.” He walks out of the court. Oneites moves to follow, but Glenus grabs his shoulder.

“Let him be,” Glenus says. “You’ll only give him an excuse to maim you.” Glenus takes a non-threatening step towards the king.

“He’s right, though,” Oneites mutters under his breath.

“Let me take over my brother’s position as Hyllus’s lieutenant,” Glenus says to the king. “As you can see, his emotions run him and he’s unfit to lead.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right,” Demophon agrees. “However, he’ll be reassigned to Acacius. I don’t want him too near any of his brothers on the battlefield when, if there is a battle.”

Glenus nods and Oneites looks at his brother and the king with anxiety that has wound itself into knots that pull his muscles taught. Ctesippus meanwhile has gone to plead for Athena’s help beside Macaria and Deianira

Outside of the temple, the stairs fell away with the mountainside, opening the view to all of Athens and the sea beyond it. Just outside of the fortified walls, King Eurystheus’s warriors are amassing on the shores and traveling up to the walls. Another crowd, one of Athenians, drew near to the bottom of the stairs. The royal household and councilmen’s households stand around the flat top of the stairs.

Her brothers, her mother, Iole, and Uncle Iolaus stand at the front. Deianira clings to Iolaus, who half holds her up and half holds her back. Oneites looks up to the sky. Iole wears her predictable façade of familiar indifference beside an equally impassive and proud Hyllus. Glenus and Ctesippus are looking at her, but only Ctesippus sees her. He has aged more so than any of the siblings in the past month and he continues to age before her. He will die when she does, or at least a part of him will. Just as it will in their mother.

A priest, two assisting priestesses, and three warriors stand at the top of the stairs. The swords at their waists sway with every shift. Macaria walks up to them. Her heart pounds so violently it feels as though she’s going to throw it up. But there is a peacefulness, a reverence, an acceptance and awareness behind it: Ends are also beginnings, whatever it will look like. Where something ends, another will start. It’s the cycle of life.

It does not make the next few minutes any easier, however.

The priest lay a hand on her shoulder and guides her to her knees. She begins to cry softly so she closes her eyes.

She is doing this for her family, for the Athenians. For herself. For release. And for hope. Hope for her own peace and hope for peace even after battle. Hope brought about by Athena.

A priestess produces a knife from her peplos and hands it to the priest, who presses it to Macaria’s throat. Her destiny was to be a glorified sacrificial animal. That is all she has become, what she will be remembered for, but perhaps that’s all she ever was: a scapegoat, a woman.

The priest brings the knife up and slashes, but even as he is doing so, the air swirls into a loose, confined whirlwind. The vertical, spinning column grows taller until the top half of a woman warrior emerges over its surface, a rippling image. She is adorned in a crown and holds a spear. Nike floats in the air beside her, and the air falls still. She appears only for a moment before the mirage falls away, taken by a sea breeze as time resumes.

Macaria is gone.

Another figure stands before the priest, a man twice as tall as the warriors and with wings that span the top of the stairs before the temple, where many animals have been slaughtered and many criminals beaten.

“My sisters will arrive soon,” Thanatos says. It is a would-have-been threat that their decision would not have gone over so well if he had anything to do with it. “You’re lucky your patron saved so many of you.”

And then he too disappears, leaving a chill in the breeze. An outcry breaks out, the crowd divisively screaming in terror and cheer.

Deianira cries out and collapses, bringing Oneites down with her. Iolaus is busy dishing out orders to the guards and warriors alongside Acacius to keep the crowd from rushing upwards like a tidal wave. Ctesippus, the only slow-moving figure within a hundred feet of the temple, drags his feet over to where his sister disappeared. His knees fall to the stone ground so hard the pain shoots up his thighs and rattles his teeth. All he can do is pray to Athena and beg Thanatos.

King Demophon, meanwhile, rushed forward and grasps the front of the priest’s chiton.

“What does it mean?” he demands.

The priest trembles in his grasp, his mouth opening and closing but producing no sounds or words. A priestess of Athena steps forward.

“My king, she has taken our sacrifice and Death has granted us a warning,” she says. “You’ve listened to the oracle well, but there is still a war to be won.”

King Demophon lets go of the shaken priest, calls for Acacius and Hyllus, and marches back into his palace to resume strategizing. Iolaus, an old warrior with tears in his eyes, forces himself to follow the king and his generals. Glenus is rooted to the stone beneath his feet, staring at the spot Macaria disappeared from and Ctesippus cries and prays over now, the spot where she was killed. He is both numb and empty and torn apart all at once. The guilt is all-consuming.

From where Deianira clings to Oneites where she fell, she watches her new king retreat from where her daughter was killed just moments ago. A righteous fury burns through her like glacier ice. If her Fate is to mirror that of Clytemnestra(1), then so be it.

[Pierre-Narcisse Guérin. _Murder of Agamemnon_ , 1817. Louvre, Paris](https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/eascfa/dinner_party/heritage_floor/clytemnestra)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) A story that could parallel to the version of Macaria/Makaria is that of Agamemnon’s and Clytemnestra’s daughter Iphigenia and the Seer Calchas in Iphigenia in Aulis and the Iliad. In fact, you could say that he instigated the conflict between Agamemnon and Achilles.  
> -Summary: https://www.greekmythology.com/Myths/Mortals/Iphigenia/iphigenia.html  
> After this incident, many of those who could afford it hired private/independent seers—and this wasn’t just in the myths: Alexander the Great, for example, also hired his own! 
> 
> As for Clytemnestra… In some versions of the myth, after her daughter is killed, she plots the murder of Agamemnon and Cassandra, who Agamemnon had won as a war prize. In others, it’s her lover Aegisthus. They went on to rule together, but she’s killed by her son Orestes, who also kills his half-brother (Aegisthus’s and Clytemnestra’s son) and takes the throne. Basically, a lot of murder plots within the family.  
> -Basics on Clytemnestra: https://www.greekmythology.com/Myths/Mortals/Clytemnestra/clytemnestra.html  
> -Interesting read on Clytemnestra through the lens of applying the label of a femme fatale (would ofc have its own drawbacks/biases/limitations but interesting nevertheless): https://www.belmont.edu/burs/pdf/Theatre%20-%20Sneed.pdf
> 
>   
> Image: https://www.brooklynmuseum.org/eascfa/dinner_party/heritage_floor/clytemnestra


	15. Makaria, Goddess of Blessed Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last gentle reminder that I won't be updating again until next weekend 1/30-1/31. From there on out, updates will be every other week for each of my two stories unless I say otherwise (midterm and final seasons may disrupt this plan so forewarning)
> 
> Today I went back through the chapters and added images (maps, art, sculptures, renditions, etc.). I tried to provide informative links wherever I could. Feel free to go back to check them out. You'll have to scroll down to the end of each chapter if you do. I'll be providing them from here on out whenever I can/remember. Please share some art with me, too! I miss art museums so, so much. If it relates to the story, cool, I might put it at the end of a chapter if the topic relates to the chapter subject, but any art is cool, too! Please accept this offering of mine for no longer being able to post as often/quickly, and thank you all as always for the continued support! 
> 
> Hope you all are doing well and staying healthy!

Head throbbing, Macaria blinks her eyes open. She’s laying on smooth, marble ground under dim, white lighting. The underground palace is humid, the ground slick and shiny with dampness. Dark marble and stone shoot up from the ground in columns to hold the low ceiling, the only thing earthen and rocky, aloft.

“She’s awake,” says a voice behind her, and Macaria sits and jerks around so fast that her head spins.

“Slow down, dear,” says the same voice. It belongs to a woman with an otherworldly beauty with skin like that of limestone temple floors, glowing despite the grayish tint given to her by the lighting, or lack thereof. A wreath crown adorns her long, strawberry blonde hair. “You’ve traveled far.” The woman smiles down at Macaria in a way that says, _I know, I understand_ and _It’s going to be okay, you’re okay now_.

Macaria glances around once more, but it’s not the statues and columns or the fact that the place seems to have no ending in any direction that catches her attention. As dark as the rest of the palace, two thrones rest atop three stairs. A man with an impassive expression and long, black robes sits on one. Even frowning, he gives nothing away. His eyes flicker between the two women before him as his bearded chin rests on the back of his hand. Gray tinges the otherwise ash-black hairs. A crown of golden leaves sits atop his curly, long hair.

When Macaria looks again at the woman, she understands that her eyes rest upon the goddess Persephone. As if in confirmation, a closer inspection of her crown reveals tiny animal skulls placed into the garland, and Macaria audibly swallows. She quickly turns and prostrates herself before the sovereigns of the underworld.

A gentle touch to her shoulder lets her know she may rise. Persephone takes Macaria’s hand and helps her to her feet, holding it tightly as the room around her sways for a moment.

“I don’t understand,” Macaria whispers.

A drip of water can be heard from far off somewhere.

Persphone bestows upon her that same sympathetic smile. “Welcome, Macaria, Daughter of Heracles,” she says. “There’s a feast to be had in your honor.”

Macaria looks at the goddess incredulously.

“Henceforth you will be known as Makaria, Goddess of Blessed Deaths, Daughter of Hades.”

“Excuse me?”

“Through your sacrifice to Athena, she has granted you a life of immortality,” Persphone said.

Another drip of water. It echoes through Makaria’s skull. The news brings neither jubilation nor fury but shock.

“Perhaps some food and drink will make you feel better.” Hades rises from his seat, towering high enough the tips of his crown’s large golden leaves could be a centimeter from the ceiling. He steps down the stairs and approaches, holding out a pale hand before Makaria can bow or fall to her knees again.

“From now on it will only be mortals doing it to you,” he murmurs. “This is your home now, the feast will be ready by the time we arrive, and you are the goddess of honor—almost literally now, thanks to Athena.” He’s already walking away, still talking, with Persephone on his arm. She glances back and motions with her other hand for Makaria to follow.

Like a frightened but loyal puppy, Makaria does. Her bare feet pad against the cool floor, a moistness collecting beneath with every step. She is still in the attire she died—or didn’t die in. She wonders if but would be rude to ask if she was dead.

“It was your honor, after all, that has brought you here,” Hades says. “Not to mention Thanatos.”

Makaria stops and at the ceasing of the sound of feet walking, Persephone also stops, Hades only doing so a second after his wife does. Persephone lets go of Hades, who looks at her with a concoction of vexation and hurt before blinking away the emotions. She strides over to Makaria and brushes her warm hands up and down Makaria’s cold ones, bringing out the gooseflesh on her arms.

An anger that can only be expressed through tears wells up in Makaria and she struggles to hold them back.

“Let the feast distract you,” Persephone says. She snaps and a servant appears from around one of the columns. Makaria fleetingly wonders if he had always been there or perhaps walked through the column as though it was some sort of way to travel throughout the underworld. “Has Makaria’s temple and rooms been set up?”

“Yes, Persephone.”

“Have some fresh clothes and shoes be brought out,” she says before turning to Hades. “My Pluto, Makaria and I are going to her rooms and then we’ll meet you at the feast.”

“Don’t take too long,” he says coolly. With a piercing glance at Makaria, Hades gathers his long robes and walks away.

“Come, this way,” Persephone says and takes Makaria’s hand, leading her down the row of adjacent columns. They walk in silence for a moment, the bottom of Persephone’s bare feet inaudible against the marble floor. Only Makaria’s can be heard, slapping against the slight wetness as Persephone whisks her forward.

“You must have many questions,” she says, “and I think I will be the best to answer them for you. So, ask away.”

“Am I dead? Will I be able to leave?” The questions leave Makaria’s lips before it registers the inappropriateness of the last one in particular.

Persephone slowed.

“I should not—”

“No, it’s a fair question, my dear,” Persephone says softly, linking Makaria’s arm with her own so they walk side by side.

The white glow that permeates the air of the underworld strips Persephone of any color she might have but even so, she glows with it, as one might under the moonlight.

“You’re not dead, or you would be facing judgment, and your situation will be different but perhaps similar to mine,” Persephone says. “In time, you will have a duty that will bind you to your job and your home here. It will also bring you to the surface world and on occasion, I’m sure Olympus. You won’t be confined here by season like myself, but by another duty, a duty to those whose Fate is to die in ways not unlike yourself. I’m sure you will have time to see your family again, but I cannot deny that it will be limited visiting, whether it spans years or an hour.”

As she talks, Persephone’s eyes are bright and her cheeks, full yet high, and it’s easy to understand how men could fawn over her. Why Hades would go to such lengths. It brings forth a question Makaria is not sure either will want to discuss, but there is a sharp, venomous need that secretes itself into Makaria’s veins.

“What did Agesilaos(1)—”

“You should call him Hades. There is no longer a need for epithets or fear.”

With conscious effort, Makaria moves her tongue and lips to form the words. “What did Hades mean when he talked of Thanatos?” she asks.

“Hades grows bored here at times and can fall into the trap of bad habits such as gossip. None of which have helped his reputation,” she says with a dry chuckle. “You should ask him yourself. Though I have advised Thanatos not to come to the feast tonight, your duties are similar, and you will have to work with him in the future. Even if you can avoid him in day-to-day duties, he will be the best mentor for your position from a professional standpoint.”

“From a personal one?”

“I cannot recommend the Keres, so I will talk to Hades and ask him to act as your mentor instead. If he won’t do it, I will.”

The two goddesses, one new and one seasoned, walk in silence the rest of the way as Makaria processes everything. She isn’t dead. Not remotely. She isn’t just immortal; She’s a goddess. Makaria aches to tell her family, knowing her mother is sobbing and her brothers could use a boost with war hanging over their heads.

The palace air warms Makaria as they continue to walk. Despite the dampness of the floor, the water in the air is light, just enough to keep her skin from feeling tight or dry. They have left the throne room behind for a very large corridor, so wide the doors to other rooms are small and distant. Slowly, they walk through columns towards the rooms. The walls are painted with pearlescent plaster and carved into. Designs of death and growth scrawl across.

Persephone leads her to a room with exterior walls of thorns and roses. With the pearly paint, it looks as though milk or liquid moonlight drips from the thorns. The misty reflection of white light in the water makes it seem too real. They walk in, and Makaria is greeted by a lofty expanse of space and a view of the river far off in the distance.

“This is your bedroom,” says Persephone. “You have a private bath through that door, but there is also a public bath that I wish to go to with you after the feast. Would you like to rest today and go tomorrow?”

“Yes, please.”

Persephone lets go of Makaria so that she can begin exploring. An indigo peplos and a dark navy shawl lay on the massive kline, which could have fit four people comfortably. Two sandals lay at the foot of the bed. Persephone shuts the door. As she changes with a bit of help from Persephone, which gives off a moment of surrealness within the surrealness of everything else going on, Makaria looks around at her spacious room, her private bath, extra kline that is half the size of her bed and sits in front of the window view, and her chests of clothing.

Persephone moves over to a mirror and several pyxides of jewelry on a lowboy-style vanity. There is a flash of light in the mirror. Makaria walks up to it, unable to believe what her eyes clearly see. Her dark hair is even lighter than Persephone’s and Thanatos’s; it has turned platinum blonde. Makaria runs her hands over it, again and again, she pulls it forward and looks down at her locks the color of white marble temples.

Persephone pulls out and fishes through ruby jewels, bracelets of silver, and golden necklaces with chunks of jade hanging from them. She hands Makaria silver bracelets with cut-out vine leaves and a necklace with a teardrop of sapphire. Makaria puts on rings of chalcedony and amethyst and emerald, not caring if they didn’t match, but Persephone stops her before she could put another one on.

“Leave your head free and this finger,” she says, rubbing Makaria’s right middle finger between her thumb and index finger.

“Do you genuinely enjoy life here?” Makaria asks, looking down at the rings and abundance of riches. Makaria takes off the chalcedony ring, feeling like a goddess and a thief. She had many riches back home, but they came to the family because of her father. They belong to the family. These are given to her alone, and it feels wrong.

“I have come to be satisfied with it,” Persephone replies, coming up behind her. “Life here taught me that true happiness is a fickle beast at best. You’re much more likely to be grateful and satisfied if you try to be content rather than ecstatic.”

“How do you do it?”

Persephone smooths down Makaria’s hair. “Our identities make us who we are, but they can also restrict us. I am Hades’ wife as much as I am Demeter’s daughter. The incident was many years ago and though the pain still links and surfaces, I have learned how to deal with it and have come to know and thus appreciate my husband. He has been able to teach me about life outside of the constant hovering of my mother, too. Some wounds will scar, others will heal, and sometimes you learn to see that the scars are healed wounds. The scars will serve as reminders of strength, and the healed wounds will serve as little more than bad memories, but all are important lessons.

“What good does it bring me to wallow in those wounds and scars? I did it for many years, and it brought only pain. It was only when I worked through my pain that I could let it scar or heal. And then I continued my life. I didn’t forget, but I didn’t let it control me anymore.”

Makaria doesn’t reply.

“You have a feast to go to, Makaria,” Persephone reminds her, taking her arm. “A time to celebrate and for now, forget.”

Makaria lets Persephone take her through the palace and the columns and the misty glow of light. The dining hall is not far from the throne room and neither room are walled in but rather open and airy. Though Makaria knows they are deep underground, it feels like a clear, summer night and it smells like a festival.

Beyond the table, a great bonfire crackles as the tongues of flames lap at the rocky ceiling. A spit-roasted pig hangs next to the table, steaming. The table, which must be twelve feet long and five feet wide, is covered in food. The gods and goddess, major and minor, of the underworld gather around the table, chatting. Numerous Keres drink and shout over all others, whose voices can be heard from farthest away even above the discord. The cheering and laughter explode into one great cheer, followed by more cheering and yelling over one another, and clapping at the arrival of Persephone and Makaria. Makaria shyly moves to half hide behind Persephone.

At the far end of the table, Hades stands, and the cacophony ebbs. “Makaria, come here,” he says. Persephone gives an encouraging nod, and Makaria goes forward. All eyes follow her as she walks down the length of the table. She holds her head high, clasping her hands together to hide how much they are trembling.

The Erinyes, Alecto, Megaera, and Tisiphone, eye Makaria as though picking her apart. Their serpents hiss from their heads and around their waists and arms, their wings stretching out in show. Hecate, Hermes, who is half-drunk already, and Hypnos smile. There are many other gods and goddesses: Eris, Hesperides, Nemesis, Apate, Philotes, Oizys, the Oneiroi, the demon Moros, and more. Nyx and Erebus smirk in their seats.

At the sight of the Moirae and the aged, primordial goddess Chaos who all sit beside Hades, Makaria almost stumbles. She cannot help but gape at the four, dark-skinned older women, each one’s expression growing in severity as they grow in age, yet none looking unkindly back at her. When Lachesis raises her eyebrows, Makaria snaps out of the trance and forces herself to look at Cerberus from head to head to head, who sits and pants at Hades’ side.

Persephone walks around Makaria to stand beside her husband. She gently puts a knuckle under Makaria’s chin so that Makaria looks into her Forget-Me-Not blue eyes.

Two nymphs come forward, each carrying a pyxis made of gold. Makaria marvels at their strength, never having thought of nymphs as much more than preternaturally beautiful and unearthly.

Persephone opens one of the containers, reaches in, and takes out an opal ring. There is shifting at the table as some strain to see.

“Makaria, with this ring, I welcome you home,” she says and slides it onto Makaria’s right middle finger.

Hades opens the second pyxis to reveal a silver diadem that sparkles with so many tiny diamonds, the stones look woven into the thin, smoothed metal. A single sapphire hangs from the front of the diadem. Makaria dips her head as Hades places it on her.

“Makaria, Goddess of Blessed Deaths,” Hades crowned her, and her heart drums in her chest. She looks up at him and spots a spark of something more than impassivity. Pride, or at the very least approval, if she wasn’t mistaken. 

A breeze passes through the room. Makaria assumes it from the ceremony until she hears gasps and she follows Hades’ gaze. Athena stands beside Persephone. She doesn’t carry her shield or spear, though a short sword and knife are strapped to her waist.

“Thank you, Makaria, my Goddess of Blessed Deaths, for protecting my people,” she says. “I promise to watch over your family just as you will do now, too.”

Athena gifts Makaria with a book called _Phronesis_ , or _Wisdom_ , before kissing Makaria on the cheek.

“Even the best sometimes need counseling,” Athena whispers in her ear. “You of all must remember and be an example that pride is the ultimate vice and love, the ultimate virtue.”

Another rush of wind and as Athena steps away from Makaria, she disappears. There is a pause of silence before Persephone starts clapping and the rest join in with applause and cheering.

To her dismay and anxiety, Makaria is seated at the other end of the table across from Persephone and Hades. The Keres and Eris all yell over one another to talk to her. She tries to keep up as they show no signs of knowing or caring about how she’s struggling. She ends up just picking on two to talk to before moving into another two as soon as they take a breath in between words, which is not very common. This tactic seems to please them, though, and they grow louder and pushier as they all vie for her attention.

Finally, the Moirae stand and take their leave, pausing to congratulate and welcome Makaria. She stands to talk with them, making a concerted effort not to start praying to them.

The youngest, Clotho, takes Makaria’s hands in her. “Athena wishes wisdom in choice for you,” she says, and Makaria is unsurprised a Fate knows what Athena whispered to her, but it is still mesmerizing to have even just one so close and paying attention to her. “Many gods and goddesses seek our counsel. You may too, but we ask that you do so only in case of grave need. For now, I want to tell you that learning to ask and accept help from others is just as important as learning independence.”

Makaria grows steely, her hands beginning to ball up. “Thank you,” she forces out and with the Keres and Eris so near, whispers, “Aren’t boundaries and respect also important?”

Clotho grins. “That is where Athena’s phronesis comes in: discerning. You must learn your balance, where it is okay to compromise and where it is not.”

“Do you think I should talk with him?” Makaria knows the answer, but she does not want to sound rude or accusatory towards one of the Moirae.

“In your own time,” Clotho says, placing her hand on Makaria’s cheek. “Welcome home.”

With that, the Moirae leave. The bonfire continues to burn, and people turn to dancing after the feast. Even Chaos and Hades join in. She requests to dance beside Makaria as they hold hands and sing and circle around the fire. The goddess doesn’t strike up a conversation with Makaria, but Makaria is grateful and blown away to even be dancing with her. She even spots Hades smile on occasion, his joy only ever being directed towards Persephone, who was the one to drag him towards the fire to dance alongside everyone.

By the end, Makaria is thoroughly exhausted and distracted. She thinks only of her new bed, of how big it is, and how comfortable it must be. After they dance around the fire, the festivities continue with more dancing and more food and wine until they all have collapsed or are near to it.

What feels like days after her arrival but is more like a quarter of a day later, Makaria’s feet and head throb as she sways back to her rooms. She doesn’t remember the way, carried in Hades’s arms like a small child, or the feel of Persephone running her hand over Makaria’s hair and softly kissing(2) her goodnight. As soon as she is set onto her kline, Makaria falls asleep.

["Macaria"](http://www.howarddavidjohnson.com/myth&.htm)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Agesilaos - an epithet of Hades, along with Agesander  
> Source: Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology (1849, ed. William Smith)  
> https://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/moa/ACL3129.0001.001/83?rgn=full+text;view=image  
> From what I can gather, epithets were used to avoid using his name while still (seeming to) being respectful, so I guess there was some belief in the power of names in ancient Greece. The epithets above indicate that he is someone who leads/calls mortals away.  
> More epithets/titles: https://www.theoi.com/Cult/HaidesCult.html#Titles
> 
> (2) On kissing in ancient Greece (with art and literature sources/reference): https://classroom.synonym.com/did-ancient-greeks-kiss-show-affection-11438.html
> 
> The original artist of the image = Howard David Johnson
> 
> Macaria is under the Daughters of Hades section, it's a ways down, so you may want to use your search/find function but it's chock-full of ancient Greek art, so you may also want to take your time and scroll through some of the pieces:  
> http://www.howarddavidjohnson.com/myth&.htm
> 
> If you want to contact me in a more immediate way, esp. Sun-Thurs, use Twitter (@montblanca); you can contact me for anything, even if it's not directly related to my work here. I usually reply within 24-48 hours. If it's something direr than a rough day, please consider these options (while I'm willing to listen, I am not a professional/expert):  
> \--Not sure these are international:  
> https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/find-help/index.shtml  
> https://www.samhsa.gov/childrens-awareness-day/event/resources-suicide-prevention  
> https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/education-awareness/shareable-resources-on-suicide-prevention.shtml  
> \--International-ish (very western-centric, sorry):  
> https://checkpointorg.com/global/


	16. A Tour of Hades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES 300 HITS and overall more engagement!! Thank you!!! Be sure to mark for later, bookmark or subscribe if that would be helpful to you with slower chapter updates, and ofc, leave a kudos or comment to tell me what you think :)
> 
> Next update scheduled for between 2/12 - 2/14 
> 
> Gay relationships were totally normal at a systemic level at this time. The relationship is relatively subtle in this chapter, but still, just know that if you're intolerant about it, hate comments will be deleted--and next time: I recommend checking tags. 
> 
> This goes for any reader, even the engaging and kind ones: I personally update tags as I go, so to be sure you're not getting yourself into anything you don't like, remember to check the tags every once in a while. You are the only one who can decide what is acceptable for you and what isn't so please do be sure to review tags (esp. for readers going from here to Vampire King; it's still not explicit but it is less mild and more mature of a read and will only get more so as it goes on). I try to include TW but just in case, please check and re-check!

Ships float, anchored in the massive cove before Athens. The air is warm and sweat gathers along the king’s brow. King Demophon looks over the mass of men across the empty space. King Eurystheus’s general at the front of one along the shore, their dinghies bobbing in the water behind them. Just as King Demophon’s is, Eurystheus’s tent is set up far from the battlesight, but both kings stand by their generals for their own prebattle rituals. Acacius and Hyllus stand at the front of the mass gathered between the wall of Athens and the other army.

A mantis has brought a cow calf out before Demophon’s army. The calf’s head is pulled back, exposing its neck before the gods. There is the murmur of pray before the mantis brings a sacrificial knife down, slicing open the calf’s throat in an offering to the gods. King Demophon cannot hear from where he stands, but he knows the mantis is praying and beseeching the gods as he works, disemboweling the calf to pull out its liver. The work takes time and the pungent stench of death and blood festers, carried by the breeze over the army.

The mantis is bowed over, blocking Demophon’s view, inspecting and interpreting the liver and flow of blood. After several minutes of tense silence, the mantis rises. He walks over to Demophon and bows.

“King Demophon,” he says. “It is an auspicious day if one relies on one’s strengths. Water surges with power. It sustains and it kills.”

“If you lose your talent for poetry, become a mantis,” Acacius mutters to Hyllus, who snickers.

The mantis shoots a venomous glare at the generals. “He who mocks,” says the mantis, “lacks.”

Acacius snorts while Hyllus scowls, high brows drawn forward, casting shade over his dark, hooded eyes.

“Mantis,” says Demophon. “The calf.”

The mantis tugs at his chiton as if it is out of place. “Of course, my king,” he says. “Through their humble servant,” the mantis bows, “the gods have recommended use of the seas.” With spite he adds, “The general’s sister’s sacrifice promises hope.”

Hyllus’s scowl morphs into a grimace, and Acacius puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t grow distracted, brother,” he says. “Focus. Fight for her. Let her death not be in vain.”

Hyllus grabs Acacius’s forearm and Acacius grabs his. Their heads bow, pressing together. Hyllus has grown to admire the general. They have trained and fought together. There is an understanding between the two that Hyllus has not known before. They think, act, and believe and value in the same ways. In just the short time Hyllus has stayed in Athens, not even his father’s gift Iole can compare. To Hyllus, Acacius is second only to Herakles in his heart.

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ

When Makaria wakes, her arm instinctively moves out of the covers, only to touch cool, dewy air and she shrinks back under her covers until only her head sticks out. Outside, the world is dark, the light ever a dim white glow whose source she can’t quite see or place. Perhaps moonlight has melted and seeped through the earth and it drips from the underworld’s ceilings, like the paint from her wall’s thorn.

Makaria throws off the covers and shudders. She wants to bathe, but she remembers her promise to Persephone.

Persephone.

The goddess herself.

A goddess herself, Makaria.

Makaria might think it was all a strange dream if she had not awoken in the underworld.

A goddess of blessed deaths.

It sounds surreal and the task, impossible. How can she take care of all the blessed deaths out there? Are there very many, to begin with?

There is a bitter taste in her mouth. She’ll have to work with Thanatos and the Keres, or at least be around them. She walks into her bathroom and with a clean cloth, dips her finger into a powder that smells of cloves and fennel and cinnamon before working to cleanse her teeth and mouth. Scrubbing away the taste of Thanatos, she scrubs too harshly. When Makaria spits, the powder-now-paste has a dash of red in it and a spot on her upper righthand side stings. She rinses her mouth.

Makaria changes out of yesterday’s clothes and takes off her jewelry, save her opal ring. It shines up at her like a smooth piece of the moon. She’d at least had the sense to put her diadem back into its golden case before falling asleep. Now she takes it out and puts it on, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her light hair falls to her waist, just below her breasts. There is a slight coarseness to it that wasn’t there before Death took her and Rebirth made her whole again.

She’s not really sure she ever did die. Persephone said she didn’t, but perhaps it is possible to be dead and alive all at once. She is not really sure she even looks the part of a goddess. Her hair is a silver-white, not golden or dark blonde. It is as though her hair has aged faster than she ever could. Now, faster than she ever will.

A knock at the door has Makaria ripping off the diadem and shoving it back into the golden box before she realizes it is her own and there is no need to hide it. She’s no thief.

“Are you awake?” Persephone enters at the sight of Makaria standing before her vanity. “I wanted to let you sleep in for today. How did you sleep?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Hades has agreed to take you under his wing but asked that I give you the tour,” Persephone says. “He has to rearrange somethings first.” She walks over to the vanity and takes out the diadem, placing it onto Makaria’s head. Her gaze turns morose.

“I would have liked to take you to the surface before we begin,” Persephone says, “but as you know, I cannot go until spring comes. I don’t recommend asking Hades, he avoids it as much as possible, but once you have some free time, you should ask another for help. You shouldn’t have any trouble returning, but it’s always good to go with another. Especially so fresh a goddess. I recommend my dear Hecate.”

Makaria nods, her voice sticking in her throat like a small ball lodged there.

“Anyways, shall we begin?” Persephone says excitedly, as though she has not had a girl friend in centuries. “We’ll bathe at the end, if that’s okay with you.”

Persephone takes Makaria through Makaria’s connecting rooms: her tiled bathroom, a storeroom for her own personal wine and food collections, a library with shelves for walls, an office already filled with scrolls and parchment, a workshop for pottery and any other hobbies Makaria wishes to take up, and an armory with weapons and armor tailed to her.

The storeroom is cool and dry and filled with all kinds of food and drink. Fruits that will never rot, cheese aged to perfection, and meat with a sprinkle of salt so that it may never go bad. The wine collection covers half of the wall. Persephone notes that she can always get more and change up her spaces to fit her however she wishes. She also tells Makaria that whenever she wants something, to just call upon the servants and they will get it done; however, she must give the servants the order herself, whether it be just speaking to the air in her bedroom or finding a servant and telling them, because without her permission, no one can enter her rooms.

The library smells musty. It has shelves for walls. The shelves are only half-filled so that Makaria can choose the remaining books herself. She skims over the ones already there. Many are books written by the gods and goddesses. Some are written by great mortals, kings and queens, high priests and priestesses, scholars and philosophers. The majority of the books are stories of epic things that have happened, though some delve into ethics and fundamentals.

The office has cubbies filled with fresh parchment. Persephone points out certain scrolls, some being forms, others being scribbled-out instructions, that will help Makaria with her future duties. Persephone doesn’t clarify who has written them for Makaria, which makes her suspicious enough to avoid the question.

The workshop looks like it would work best as a pottery space with the wheels and tools set out. As Makaria explores more of what’s stored in the large closets, though, she finds an array of canvases and paints and stones and other materials that could be used to make almost any medium of art available. There is also an aulos and lyre tucked safely away.

The armory is somewhat of a new space to Makaria. Most Greeks pay for their own weapons and armor, keeping it all in their homes—if they can afford them. Many use farming equipment, from what her brothers would talk about. She’s only seen her family’s royal armory once or twice when following her brothers and father, and even then, it was a brief glimpse because almost immediately someone would yell at her and drag her out. Mortal girls aren’t meant to be in armories. And yet, here is her very own.

On one wall hangs shields. Spears are set up against the far corner. In the center, swords are held up in their racks. The wall opposite to her shields hold her armor. A closet contains scabbards and straps and some other things Makaria doesn’t know the names of or recognize but is sure they serve some important uses.

“It was all made tailor to you,” Persephone says as she too walks along the armory to inspect it all for the first time. She lingers before the armor. “Most by our own blacksmiths, but Athena’s other gift to you was made not in secret but in quiet: she asked Hephaestus to make your armor, two swords, and two spears. Each will have your symbol.” 

Persephone picks up a sword to show Makaria the pommel. Its material is red and has a slight stickiness to it. At the end is an opal and if Makaria looks close enough, she can make out a scythe with thorned roses wrapped around it.

“Why a rose?” Makaria asks.

“I understand you found a peony out of season to offer Athena,” she says. “Perhaps it comes from that.”

“Do you think I should ask the Moirae?”

“They are _the_ Fates but they aren’t _Fate_ ,” Persephone advises as she puts away the sword. “I’m not sure they’d know or appreciate being asked something like that, it’s a bit trivial for them.” They walk through the armory door, and white, so bright it’s almost blinding after having adjusted to the underworld’s dimness, floods Makaria’s vision.

The white marble of the temple contrasts starkly with the black marble of the underworld. At the center is an alabaster statue of her. In one hand, she holds a bundle of roses with thorns the size of her actual pinky and in the other, a small scythe that rises to her shoulder. Her face is young, almost child-like, unsmiling but holding and innocence and grace that softens her features.

“You will be the source of your power, but here is where it’s all housed,” Persephone explains. “Any visitors will have to see you through here. Without your genuine consent, they won’t be able to pass through. You’ll hear them no matter where you are, it will be your choice to show or speak to them.”

Makaria looks above the temple entrance, where the story of her life thus far begins. At first a young child, she is surrounded by her family and sitting atop her father’s broad shoulders. A scene with a lightning bolt hitting a pyre. She embraces a man with wings and at that, her cheeks flush in embarrassment and anger that it has been carved into stone for all to see, forever to be remembered. Then, she is in Athena’s temple, praying, a child compared to the goddess’s statue. What is strange is she is the only one in the temple and a single flower lays before Athena’s stone feet.

“It’s very detailed,” Makaria remarks, feeling exposed. “The gods really do know and see everything.”

“We see more than many mortals do,” Persephone says. “But we also only see what we choose to see. This temple makes itself.”

Makaria looks at her in disbelief. “Temples can do that?”

“When we are born, we are each gifted one by Fate and it follows us through our time, recording our achievements and life,” Persephone says. “The temples you are familiar with are made by mortal men. Only the one given to us by Fate can do that. That is why you will see that each of us have a temple, and it’s custom to live in those temples in Olympus, but not all of us have temples made by mortals.”

“Where’s yours?”

“My original one is in Olympus.” Makaria is surprised by the lack of remorse and matter-of-fact tone with which Persephone speaks. “When I came here, Hades began the tradition of no longer living in temples. Instead, they have become like security alcoves to our private rooms. They hold the same powers as all the other temples, but none of us live in them. For now, I stay with Hades. He says I can have one built, but it feels. . . cumbersome, nonsensical, and intolerably excessive.”

Makaria turns back to her story to look at the last scenes: her death before the temple. A nonexistent icy finger drags down her spine, sending chills across her body and making gooseflesh rise. She quickly shifts her gaze to her coronation and sees Persephone putting on the ring, Hades holding her crown, and Athena offering the book. The scenes don’t even cover the length of the entrance.

“In time, your story will be carved with each achievement and failure, some of which you won’t be able to tell if they are achievements or failures or both, but they will always serve as lessons and reminders,” Persephone says with the maturity and foresight of someone speaking from experience.

“Scars and healed wounds,” Makaria says, making Persephone’s eyes twinkle, her head tilted slightly.

“They’ll wrap around the temple and start to cover the walls over time,” Persephone says.

Makaria marvels at her temple, her haven and protector. It’s the brightest part of Hades she’s seen so far, besides the dancing and festivities at her ceremony. Perhaps the underworld is now such a gloomy, lonely place after all.

Persephone takes Makaria’s hand and gently tugs, taking Makaria from her temple. The outside is as dark as the rest of the underworld and the white doesn’t shine out into the rest of the underworld from her temple, but her name and new title is inscribed above the entrance. Her heart flip-flops and she cannot stop the grin that spreads over her face.

She wants to tell her family, and it is that thought that makes her falter. Still, she holds onto what Persephone has told her about coming and going. _Soon. Soon. Soon_ , she repeats to herself. The idea of meeting Hecate sends excited tingles across her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instead of providing an image of an artwork, in my search for a piece to tack onto this chapter, I actually found a list of artworks, all relating to the underworld: https://culturacolectiva.com/art/paintings-underworld-myth
> 
> Note for the chapter title: The underworld was called Hades. Generally, as discussed a bit already, the god himself was not referred to as Hades mostly out of fear and the idea that saying his name was a bad omen. Pretty sure the same goes for Thanatos, actually. Fear kept people from worshipping them and some of the other "ugly, nasty" gods and goddesses, hence a lack of followers and temples for those dieties.


	17. The Temples of Hades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the continued support and the new Kudos/engagement! Happy Valentine's/Galentine's Day, if you choose to celebrate it!
> 
> The word 'Hades' in the title can refer to both the god and the place!

For the rest of the day, Persephone takes her through the underworld. They walk along the river Styx. Makaria meets Charon, a skeleton draped in old robes who doesn’t leave the boat even when Persephone greets him. He dips his head cordially enough and takes them across the river, where the air steadily grows drier closer to the surface. Still, there is no daylight. A wide pathway leads down to the river. A person walks down it in a trance to Charon, handing him their two obols and stepping into the boat after Makaria and Persephone have stepped out. 

Further up the path, which is desolate save the slick rocky walls and ceiling and the dead that stride purposefully past, they meet the three-headed Cerberus. His fur is short and stiff and black and looks as though it has been stretched across his skin, his body taut. His muscles ripple with each movement, and he’s as large as a medium-sized dragon. When he sees Persephone, Cerberus’s tail wags, thumping against the ground. Makaria, like the smallest pebbles shuddering against the ground, jumps at first. When they pet him, he leans into their touch. Their palms splay over his head, wider than a hydra’s. Trained well, Cerberus never barks and never leaves his station but utters a soft whine that sounds more like a low grumble when they leave him to cross back over the river.

Persephone takes Makaria to the temples of the other gods and goddesses. As the youngest of the underworld deities, Makaria’s temple is the furthest from the center, where the first temple was built for Chaos, and closest to the dark palace where the festivities were held. The Keres is the next temple, a little less than fifty meters away.

The Keres’ temple has sharp stalactites and stalagmites leading up to their entrance. At their stairs, the formations come together to form columns that look weak and are slim in the middle. The image beside Nemesis’ name depicts a winged version of her standing over a mortal with a sword and scales(1). Each temple is as short as several meters away or as long as a mile from one another and switch off which side of the path they are on. There is no seeing into them from the path, but the outside of each is distinct from the other. The temples’ path leads Makaria and Persephone through the underworld and by the time they reach Hypnos’s and Thanatos’s temples, they had descended into the Erebus Valley(2).

Hypnos’s temple looks more like a cave, the entrance arched and jagged. Dark water surrounds the temple, a single path leading from where they walk to his temple. Scarlet poppies and bellissima, violet and magenta anemone and bellflowers and hyacinth, pink dianthus, Persian buttercups, tall and blue aconite and larkspur, glowing white orchids and narcissus and yarrow, and other vibrant flowering plants grow along the path up to his entrance(3). They walk quickly and silently past Thanatos’s temple; his temple entrance calm and sleek, the image beside his name depicts an Ephebe with wings and a scythe taller than his head in one hand and a torch in the other.

Hecate’s temple is simple at first glance, but as they walk past, it looks as though the temple glints. A shimmery blue-black, it is the night sky reflected on a calm ocean. Two statues of hounds the same color as the temple sit on either side of the entrance. As Persephone walks past, their tail wags, and they bound to life. They run around Persephone and Makaria, all flexing muscles and shimmering fur, like a determined brook carving its way through the woods. Placing their heads by the goddesses’ hands, they return to their station, hard and unmoving as marble, only after a brief scratch from each. It’s not as cold of a place as it first appears, and Makaria is anxious to see the inside.

A little further down the path, Geras’ temple is cracked, moss growing from it. Rocks set out to form haphazard steps have worn down and are smoothed out in places most commonly walked on. Persephone stops before Hades’ temple. The walls are onyx marble, but with vines growing over them like long snakes slithering up the smooth surface. Flowers line the path leading to his temple: dogwood, geraniums, sweet peas, daffodils, forsythia, hyacinths, camellia, and primrose. Buttercup yellow, soft and pale lilacs, peachy tones, and the color of rose quartz fill the area with vibrant colors.

“This is where you’ll meet him on the days that you do, or where you should come if you ever need him,” she says. “Or me. We share this space.” She lets out a dry laugh and adds, “If you couldn’t tell already.”

“It’s beautiful.” Those words alone don’t seem enough to describe the magnitude at which Persephone’s flowers shine with morning dew at all times.

“If you pick one, it’ll never die,” Persephone says. “They make great decoration. I can grow others if you’re ever in need of a bouquet—actually, wait a moment.”

Flowers and shrubs begin to pop up through the stone ground, soil spreading to create a diameter around where the plants grew. Persephone slips off her sandals and stepped off the path, walking through her garden as Makaria watched in awe.

Persephone gathers creamy roses, white lilies and alstroemerias, blue hydrangea, purple statice, and sea lavenders. She produces strips of cloth out of thin air to tie the bunch together and hand it to Makaria.

“They’ll never die so I hope you like them,” Persephone says as Makaria takes the flowers, the scents washing over her. “And if you ever want, I can plant some flowers for you, too.”

“Please!”

Persephone and Makaria smile at one another, and Persephone continues down the path. She points to the temples of Nyx and Erebus next, and finally Chaos. Kronos’ temple stands but remains without a denizen, and Persephone explains how Hades forbids anyone from going in, save Chaos.

“Does she visit often?” Makaria asks.

“I don’t know,” Persephone says, walking away from the empty, eerie temple. There is nothing to suggest the temple even exists for anyone, except for Kronos’ name above the entrance. “I’ve never seen her go in or come out. She mostly sticks to herself, doesn’t even visit Hades. The fact that she showed an interest in you isn’t unheard of, but it is rare. The last—well, she’s as fond as she can be of her nephew, I’m sure. Hades once told me she was his only support when he was first banished to the underworld. Nyx and Erebus were unfazed by life in the underworld, but Hades had grown to like life above.”

“Can I ask why she and Hades are no longer close?”

“It’s not necessarily that they’re not close, but Hades has ruled for a long time. He doesn’t need counsel and support as much as before, and he prefers the Moirae since they have lived down here almost as long and know more than even Chaos. I guess, in a way, he has lost his need for her and with his disdain for life down here, he’s retreated since those early times.”

“He really hates it here?”

“I think a part of him does, but now he knows there is nothing he can do except waste away and even then, he’s not really wasting away in the same sense as mortals. There is no end for him or his time here, and with Zeus limiting his allotted time above, it only serves as a reminder. He’d rather stay here, as unideal as it is for him, but he only ever says to me, ‘What can I do?’ Don’t tell him I told you, but he wallows a lot. I guess that’s his answer to, ‘What can I do?’”

Not sure Persephone should be confiding in her of all people, Makaria is quick to shift topics. “Can Hades really tell Nyx and Erebus what to do?” she asks.

“He does rule the underworld, so yes, though he’s careful not to abuse that power, particularly with them and with Chaos,” Persephone nudges Makaria. “and me . . . With Chaos, he refrains from requesting anything from her out of respect since everything came from her.”

They continue talking and walking, and Makaria begins to realize that Persephone’s personality is as open as a blooming flower. Still, she changes topics when it begins to get too personal. If Hades is going to mentor her, she doesn’t want him to find out how they’ve been talking about him behind his back. Especially if he has tendencies to wallow and give the silent treatment. Not ideal for mentoring, and being mentored by Hades would be quite the story to bring home.

Makaria mentally catches herself: It would be quite the story to bring to her family.

Another correction: Her mortal family.

They walk through the palace’s megaron, including the throne room, through the dining hall, and up to the massive, lengthy balcony overlooking the river. Charon, now as tiny as an ant, waits at the water’s edge for passengers. At the sight, Makaria realizes they are at the top of a mountain and the temples line the path up that mountain. The ceiling of the underworld must be earth or stone, though the top air remains too dark to make it out clearly even from the highest point. It is like a ginormous cave the size of a dark and quiet but magnificent city made of a glinting black.

“It’s amazing,” Makaria utters as a breeze passes.

“Isn’t it?” Persephone agrees.

After several minutes of standing there, Persephone suggests they go bathe. She takes Makaria through the megaron once more, but this time going through another door that leads to the women’s baths. It is the most grandiose bathhouse that Makaria has laid eyes on, and thanks to her father’s reputation and lineage, she’s only ever laid eyes on the best of the best. It smells of pine, juniper, and laurel, and she can see a couple of strips of branches and bark floating in the water.

There is no ceiling, but two open-walled stories wrap around two baths that are each the size of a large temple. Stream rolls off the hotter of the two baths and crawls across the surface of anything it could touch, hanging heavily in the humid air like a fine mist. The far wall provides a view of the other side of Hades. There is much more darkness, the land stretching beyond what Makaria’s eyes can see. Speckles of light flicker, perhaps someone carrying a torch, that dot across the land.

Nemesis and Eris are bathing already, soaking in the hot mineral water. Eris is floating on the water’s surface with her eyes closed, Nemesis swimming back and forth from one pool end to the other. Makaria tried to use the steam to hide, turning her face away from the bath. Persephone walks in front of her regally, unbothered by the other women in the bath.

There is a splash signifying movement in the pool. “Dearest Makaria, there’s no need to be shy,” Nemesis coos as they walk past to the changing section of the bathhouse. They strip off their garments and jewelry, placing them into woven baskets and polished wooden drawers with open faces.

When Makaria doesn’t respond, uncertain how to once called out, Persephone speaks up as they go nude. “I’m sure she’s still acclimating,” she says before going to an area with benches, laying down on one.

Servants step forward to take vials and jars off of shelves, setting them down onto a table. They scoop out clay pastes to exfoliate Persephone and Makaria, take buckets of water from the hot bath to wash away the scrub, and massage oils into Persephone’s and Makaria’s rubbed-raw skin. Persephone’s fair skin is malaxated with elder flowers and Makaria’s beige skin with peppermint. Eris moves over to the bath’s edge to stand in the water next to her sister and leer.

“It must be hard to be here,” says Nemesis. “Such a shame it came to this. I would be upset, too, if someone made a deal with Athena for my life without my permission.”

Makaria tenses and grinds her teeth to remain silent.

“No, he didn’t!” Eris gasps and whispers just loud enough for Makaria to hear, “ _Without_ her permission? It’s not _his_ life.”

“If I have to ‘ _girls_ ’ you, I will,” Persephone warns, her eyes closed and muscles relaxing under the menstruations of her masseuse. “I’d rather not, given you are more than women. Wouldn’t it be a bit demeaning?”

A click of the tongue comes from the bath. “I am the best at getting back at others,” says Nemesis. “They don’t name one’s ultimate enemy after me for nothing.”

Persephone sighs of boredom rather than replying.

“Well, Makaria?” pushes Nemesis.

“He’s lived long enough without someone teaching him a thing or two,” adds Eris.

Makaria keeps her eyes gazing up. The steam swirls as it climbs higher towards the abyss of a ceiling.

“I’d rather avoid him,” she murmurs. “For now.”

“Well, if you change your mind,” says Nemesis.

“You know where you can find us,” says Eris.

Nemesis kicks off the edge of the pool, Eris following. They begin talking about their day’s work. Of destruction and chaos, within a family, within a group of international diplomats. Of just vengeance, of beatings, of a war.

Makaria listens closer.

“The first battle’s begun,” Eris says. “Good thing he has a whole entourage of siblings.”

“It’s only a matter of time with Athena’s protection,” muses Nemesis. “Ker says it’s pretty bloody, she thinks Thanatos is getting a taste for it.”

“I doubt it’ll last.”

“Well, with his dearest around now, who knows?” 

“Maybe it is better for her to stay away.”

“It’ll drive him mad. He’ll blame himself.”

A scoff. “Just like his cousin.”

“I hate spring and summer.”

“Right? At least it's bearable here with _her_ around.”

“Although if Thanatos is going to be driven off the edge, who knows?”

“Yeah, more fun for us.”

A shriek of a laugh. “Yeah!”

Makaria cannot help but feel sick to her stomach. She gets up and walks over to the cool bath, as far from Eris and Nemesis as possible so that she can no longer hear them. 

The cool water wakes Makaria’s sore muscles and tired mind. She tries to focus on the water as it presses against her skin, sealing her in. The sound of soft steps tells her Persephone is approaching. The water sways and Makaria with it.

“When they’re on your side, they’re not so bad. I suppose every god and goddess is like that. You of all of us would know as a former mortal,” Persephone says. “Try to just forget what they said. We all give in to our inner nature. Theirs happens to be revenge and discord.” Persephone points to a door across the way. “Anyways, if you go through there, you’ll find the gymnasium. The men have their palaestra(4) connected to their own bathhouse.”

The door into the bathhouse opens. A pair of nymphs walk through the threshold and over to where Persephone and Makaria sit, relaxing, or at least trying to. They drop to their knees next to the pool.

“Hilaron, thank you,” Persephone says to the nearest nymph with the appearance of a youthful middle-aged woman with shining green eyes. She tells Makaria, “Each of us have a priestess-nymph to help serve us and tends to our temples. Yours will serve you in any way you see fit, and she will serve you alone as such.” She motions to the next woman, a woman who looks more pixie than nymph with her angular features.

“I am Mikrion(5), Makaria,” says the fae-ish nymph as she dips her head.

The name is befitting one so dainty-looking, but her brown eyes are sharp, her mouth not much more than a pouting line as she takes all of Makaria in, making the new goddess feel bare beyond the nude. Vulnerable. Like her layers are being pulled back. She has only ever felt this way once before, and she cares not to remember it now, so she sinks deeper into the cool water.

“If there is anything you should need,” Mikrion adds shrewdly.

“She is honest in manner and intelligent in thinking,” Persephone praises. “Thank you, Mikrion.”

“Thank you,” chants the nymphs before getting up and leaving.

“I think it’s time to move, don’t you?” Persephone doesn’t wait for a reply. She gets up and moves to the hot pool, knowing all too well that Makaria will follow her.

The water stings at first and as Makaria sinks lower, the heat of it presses against her. They stay in the hot water for hours until they have pruned and swam and stretched and relaxed and ate to total satiation. With Makaria having successfully ignored them, Eris and Nemesis moved on at some point to the gymnasium, and the last half of their time in the pool became a time of quiescence.

Makaria returns, passing her temple and Mikrion and walking through her rooms to her bed warmed and full and in a sleepy haze that lulls her to sleep.

[House of Somnus, a viscosity etching by Michael Kelly Williams (1950s)](https://michaelkellywilliams.com/house-of-somnus/)

[_Nemesis_ , by Alfred Rethel (1837)](https://www.arthermitage.org/Alfred-Rethel/Nemesis.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before launching into research points specific to this chapter: I've found out that Greek temples were super colorful and here I am having been describing them as achromatic.... Honestly, I probably should have known/guessed that, but I didn't, so my mistake! For the sake of congruency, I have decided to keep the temples lacking in color (for now; when all is said and done, I may go back when I have the time or if I ever decide to re-write this story) and also because I've been using colors and the absence of colors as motifs of sorts, particularly in relation to the temples and the gods/goddesses and the underworld. 
> 
> Please note I haven't found any sources supporting the idea about each god/goddess having had their own temples on Olympus or in Hades. I just made that up as far as I know! I did take from both Roman and Greek ideas and myths for temple inspiration. The way some of the temples looked I completely made up on my own because deities like the Keres and some of the primordial gods/goddesses don't have a ton of accessible information on them out there (at least that I can find). For those like Hades's and Persephone's temple, made that up. That one's probably the most obvious lol
> 
> (1) For those like Nemesis, though, I took from what their image is within myths. For Nemesis, she is portrayed as being winged in Greek myths, and it seems like Roman myths additionally gave her a sword and scales, representing balance. She actually enacts "justice" (I believe this is said mostly in the traditional, archaic sense of the word; i.e. what we would now know as retribution and even revenge) against those who what is called "hubris," or being arrogant, foolishly overconfident, etc. towards the gods. As her attributions grew as an avenger against crime, she was given more material motifs (IMO: none of which honestly paint the ancient Greek and Roman idea of justice in a pretty light for today's standards, like actual yikes): a measuring rod (tally stick), a bridle, scales, a sword, and a scourge, and she rides in a chariot drawn by griffins. My version of her temple was taken from a painting which you can find above! :)
> 
> (2) Erebus Valley - Erebus is a region within Hades (the underworld), personified by the primordial god Erebus  
> Honestly, this was a little more difficult to research bc there are non-mythological (i.e. real) places named this, but the research says that the mythological version is a region within the underworld where the dead were sent  
> \- Introductory profile of the god and briefly on the regional connection: https://www.theoi.com/Protogenos/Erebos.html  
> \- Additional basic info.: https://www.greeklegendsandmyths.com/erebus.html -- it lacks sources so I can't speak to the legitimacy and did not use this as something to rely on 
> 
> (3) Hypnos's Temple - My description is based on/inspired by a description of a cave in Hades (the underworld/place) that Hynpos is said to reside in with his brother Thanatos as well as Homer and the Metamorphoses  
> \- According to Britannica: "In Greek myth, he [Hypnos] is variously described as living in the underworld or on the island of Lemnos (according to Homer) or (according to Book XI of Ovid’s Metamorphoses) in a dark, musty cave in the land of the Cimmerians, through which flowed the waters of Lethe, the river of forgetfulness and oblivion."  
> https://www.britannica.com/topic/Hypnos  
> \- Metamorphoses Book XI (A. S. Kline's Version) --> Bk XI:573-649 The House of Sleep:  
> https://ovid.lib.virginia.edu/trans/Metamorph11.htm#485520972  
> \- An article on Hypnos, including another translation of The House of Somnus: https://www.ukhypnosis.com/shrine-hypnos-greek-god-sleep/#:~:text=The%20cave%20is%20surrounded%20by,he%20pours%20sleep%2Dinducing%20opium. *Somnus is the Roman counterpart of Hypnos (Sleep), so in this instance, I'm also pulling from Roman, not just Greek, sources.
> 
> (4) palaestra - "Palaestra (παλαίστρα) was a wrestling ground, a place for athletic exercise, whether public or private, which eventually took the conventional form of an enclosed courtyard surrounded by rooms for changing, washing, etc."  
> \--> source/definition: https://oxfordre.com/classics/view/10.1093/acrefore/9780199381135.001.0001/acrefore-9780199381135-e-4660#acrefore-9780199381135-e-4660  
> \- additional info.: https://www.ancient.eu/Gymnasium/ 
> 
> (5) I believe it comes from the word “mikros,” or “small” (I don't know Greek, modern or ancient, so feel free to correct me)


	18. The First Labour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh sheeet guys I fell behind and am posting late! Getting into midterm territory so this may happen throughout March-April bc my midterm exams and essays are all spaced out. Sorry for the late post. My bad, was sure to add some extra art and background info links and a slightly longer chapter

Mikrion wakes Makaria with a gentle shake.

“You are to meet Hades this morning,” Mikrion says. She has set out Makaria’s clothes and jewelry for the day. The ring and diadem twinkle like winking eyes at her. She gets ready quickly before half-jogging her way to Hades and Persephone’s temple.

Hades stands at the end of the path leading up to his temple. He turns away from his wife’s newest flowers when he hears Makaria nearing. Disappointment drips through Makaria’s consciousness; she wanted to look at the temple interior.

“Are you ready?” Hades asks, and she nods. “Good. This way.” He walks down back down the temple path. His movements are slow, and his eyes remain downcast, as though he is studying each step he takes. He talks in the same way, pausing longer than most, tasting each word in his mouth before speaking. “Your duty will entail travel to the surface. I know you are eager to return, but first things first. . .. You do not need to visit everyone who dies as you nearly did—”

“So, I never died?”

“No. . .. It’s complicated but, no.”

Makaria feels the spot on her chest where she could have sworn she felt the priest’s knife puncture through to her pumping, bloody heart.

“You won’t need to visit everyone who dies as you nearly did,” he continues. “Your duty does not include the guiding of pneuma to the underworld or the judgment of pneuma. Elysium and Tartarus are off-limits, even as a goddess of Death. Should you cross any of those lines, you will be punished by myself. If you persist, you will be sent to Tartarus.

“Those you will watch over will die with or without your help. Still, you shouldn’t abandon them, especially those in need. So, what your duty does and will include is seeing to it that those who die in similar fashions to you are granted death. The circumstances of their deaths will vary but you may grant them mercy, in which case their death will be more peaceful, or at least swifter. You will have to learn to tune into prayers sent to you. Your patronage is less feared than Thanatos or the Keres, but as a goddess of Death, be ready to be taboo until they look Death in the eye.

“In those times, they will be praying to you. You will know the content and beseeches within all of these prayers automatically. It’s your own choice in who you want to answer. Just remember that you cannot keep up with them all. Death is normal and is common. Your Death is distinct, but still.”

“Are you saying I should let Fate do everything?”

“I don’t recommend meddling with Fate,” Hades says, “but you are still a protector of your patronage. When they call for you, it will be your responsibility to decide what to do. Should something happen during or after their death, you remain their protector should they get lost. While you aren’t to bring them here, you can step in should something unfortunate happen. Husbands and wives and parents are sometimes difficult in convincing their loved one must now rest permanently. They may try to step in, and without a guide, they may try anything to stop their loved one from achieving that rest just so they may have them for longer. Honestly, your duties will largely differ circumstance by circumstance, person by person. Your duty will come down to remembering who you are now and letting that guide your choices.”

“You mean I should remain objective in what I do.”

“If you can,” he murmurs. “It’s not an easy task.” He says it without saying it: _I would know._

They walk along the path in silence for a time. Makaria itches to know more but doesn’t think pushing Hades would be beneficial. Hades stops and it isn’t until he looks down the temple path that she realizes where they are: Thanatos’s temple. She eyes Hades warily, silently willing him to keep walking.

“You will have to get over your hatred for him one day,” Hades says. “It may cloud your judgment and cause complications. Death is one of the few things in life that remain simultaneously simple and complex.”

Whether Hades is talking about a person’s last breath or Thanatos, Makaria can’t tell.

“You’re not going to have me go in?” Makaria asks with childish hope.

“I may one day if you don’t. For now. . ..” Hades walks onward and relief floods Makaria.

She doesn’t want to see, hear, or talk to Thanatos. She doesn’t want to smell the pine of him or feel the soft hair under her fingers. It’s dangerous. In more ways than one.

“Persephone gave you a tour of the temple grounds, yes?” Hades asks.

Makaria nods.

“Then, I am thinking we do something a little more practical,” he murmurs. Hades holds out his pale hand. Hesitantly, Makaria takes it and finds it surprisingly soft and warm. “Whatever happens, don’t let go.”

The dark, slick flooring beneath her feet sways and she feels herself falling forward. Her hands instinctively reach out to push against the ground, but Hades grips her hand tightly in his. The sensation of falling continues for less than a second, and when she reopens her eyes, Hades lets go. They stand on the surface, the underworld left far below. A man with a winged helmet and winged sandals stands before them, waiting. Hermes is lean and tall like any good runner.

“You’re quite young,” he remarks as if surprised and impressed. “What you did was very brave. Your father is very proud.”

Makaria wishes to be holding Hades’ hand again. The warmth and something to squeeze would be comforting. Instead, he sweeps forward, away from Makaria, to greet the other god.

“Makaria, Hermes will be your coach,” Hades says, turning to her.

“My coach?”

“I want you to pass some tests,” he explains. “It will not be like the labors of your father. These challenges will be meant to teach about and force you to improve in becoming a goddess of death. As you remain unwilling to work with Thanatos, despite him being Death,” he said so reproachfully Makaria flinched and Hermes’s eyebrows rose, “Hermes will be the one to report on how you’re doing. Unfortunately, as he is not Death, he can only provide so much assistance.”

“It’s always nice to know when your second-pick,” Hermes says to Hades. “As I’m sure you’re well aware of.”

Hades glowers but it’s a look he wears so often, it isn’t that different from the way he normally looks. He ignores the remark. “I have already told Hermes what I want you to do,” he says. “Each morning you will meet him here after sunrise.”

“Yes, Hades.”

Satisfied, Hades disappears with the blink of an eye. Hermes pulls a scroll from his belt and skims it over.

“Today you’ll just have to take a pneuma to Hades,” he says. “I don’t think it will take very long, so let’s also practice hearing and responding to those dying honorable deaths—that’s your cliental, no?” Hermes’s head doesn’t raise but he looks over the top of the scroll. Makaria nods, picking at the skin along her fingernails and chewing the inside of her cheek. He lowers the scroll. “There’s no need to be nervous. It should all come naturally to you, like instincts. Your father has fallen easily into his role as patron of gymnasia.”

“You act as a psychopomp sometimes, right?”

“I do help to guide pneuma to Charon.”

“What’s it like? Is it easy? Don’t you. . . feel bad?” Makaria blurts out. She wrung her fingers in her other hand.

Hermes cocks his head. “I don’t know any of them,” he says. “I don’t know who they were or where they will go, or I guess, I avoid finding out. It’s best not to mix feelings with the job, Makaria.”

“But _how_?”

“Don’t ask questions. Don’t engage with them. Don’t watch their death. You will know when it is coming, but you don’t have to arrive until right before their energy leaves them and you have to collect their pneuma. If you are guiding them yourself, then lead them. Don’t walk beside or behind them. To you, they are not a 'someone.' You need to have your personal and your professional.”

Makaria immediately thinks of Thanatos, and her expression sours.

“If you don’t want my advice, don’t ask,” Hermes quips.

“No,” she says quickly. “I really appreciate it. . .. I may have already mixed the personal and professional, though.”

An impassive mask falls over Hermes’s face until his eyes slowly narrow. “And now you don’t wish to work with Thanatos,” he says. 

Makaria can do nothing but nod and resume picking at her nails, this time more fervently.

“Did he cross the line or you or both?”

Makaria colors. She does not want the whole of the pantheon to know her deepest, darkest secret, but then she remembers him called upon Athena’s help. Even if Athena never said something, the pantheon would certainly have picked up on Thanatos’s distinctive interest in her.

“He did,” she says. The lie leaves the aftertaste of soured milk in her mouth.

Hermes makes an epiphanic expression. “Then, this wasn’t by choice,” he reasons.

Makaria blinks as she feels the tears welling up. “I don’t know what to do or if I will be able to,” she says, her voice wavering.

Hermes snorts unsympathetically, and it’s like someone slapped her. “Makaria, this is your purpose now,” he says flatly. “I will tell you what to do so you know for the next time. As for being able to do it, the only reason you wouldn’t be able to is if you didn’t do it. I’d rather not chase after your lost pneuma and Thanatos is too busy to pick up your mess and the Keres, honestly, might only make a bigger mess, so just do your job. You can and you will do it.”

Makaria hastily wipes away her stray tears. “Okay,” she says.

“Right,” Hermes sighs. “Let’s get started then, shall we? The first assignment is simply to capture a pneuma and bring it to Hades, who will then dispose of it himself. However, I want to first test your ability to hear those praying to you or who have fallen under your patronage. Then, pick one, focus on it, and you will quickly find yourself traveling to that person. Have you traveled through time and space on your own already?”

“No.”

“Don’t fight it. The connection will shut down if you do. The travel itself will be like when Hades brought you here. Ready?”

Makaria drew in a deep breath and after a pause, nodded. “I’m ready.”

“Close your eyes. Think of those who are dying honorably or whose Fate is to do so. You will start to hear voices. Do you hear them?”

What starts as a dull drone becomes more intelligible until words overlap over one another, and it’s hard to focus on one, there are so many. Each word is enunciated but only some reach out to Makaria before fading back into the other distant voices bouncing around in Makaria’s mind.

“Yes,” she says.

“Good. Now focus on them. Let them grow louder. When you can pick out a word from someone, latch onto it so that what they are saying comes to the forefront and the others die away.”

Makaria listens harder, and the voices sound as if a crowd is drawing near. Words continue to reach out only to dissolve, but steadily, it becomes easier to pick up the words. Makaria tries to latch onto one word but another distracts her, and it slips through her mind like sand through fingers. She grabs onto another, but as it quickly unfurls in her mind, she realizes it’s not so much a word but searing pain.

Makaria whimpers but holds fast. It burns. She is breathing in smoke. Fire bites into her skin. Her legs are already numb, but her flesh feels like it’s being torn from her upper body in chunks. She can’t see and with every inhale, she is choking on soot.

“Makaria!” Hermes shouting pierced through her thoughts.

Makaira’s eyes open, and she finds herself looking up at Hermes, her cheeks wet again. She sniffles and lets Hermes help her to her feet. The ground sways under her for another moment before she feels well enough to let go of Hermes. She doesn’t feel anywhere near stable, though, her whole body trembling.

“I could feel what someone felt,” she whispers. “They were burning alive.”

“It seems you will be dealing with both kinds of death, then,” Hermes says. When Makaria looks puzzled at him, he explains, “The Keres deal with the violent kind. Thanatos deals with the peaceful kind. For them, it doesn’t matter if the death is honorable or not. For you, that’ll be your only criteria. You will have to be ready to engage with both kinds.”

Makaria gulps. She doesn’t want to ever experience another person’s death again, violent or peaceful. The thought makes her stomach churn, and a spell of nausea washes over her.

“I’ll bring you to someone,” he says. “We can practice you going by yourself another time. Before you come back tomorrow, I want you to talk to the Keres _and Thanatos_ about how to deal with approaching both deaths.”

Makaria groans through growing nausea. Hands on her knees, she shuts her eyes and wills the feeling to leave. It takes a few minutes of quiet and immobility before she feels well enough to consider resuming her tasks.

“Okay,” she croaks.

One of Hermes’s eyebrows raises slightly. “What I said about talking with Ker and Thanatos will be considered a part of your labors,” he says. Makaria opens her mouth to protest, so Hermes waves the scroll in his hand at her. He continues, “We’re going to start again. Hold onto me. Remember not to let go or you will get lost.”

“Wait, can’t you teach me how to travel on my own?” she asks.

“You can practice in Hades with Hades,” Hermes says. “Now, hold on.”

Makaria looks Hermes up and down, grabbing onto his chiton’s belt. Immediately, the earth sways so quickly beneath her feet she falls forwards and through it. Her momentum carries her so that she continues to fall forward, though her feet never move so that she circling the spot she feels rooted to through the earth, through time and space. Finally, the spinning stops.

She is looking down at a man choking on nothing but air. He is covered in his own blood and hoof prints, much of his body trampled into splintered bones and mashed flesh. Makaria’s hand flies over her mouth and she gags. Guilt floods through her as she turns to spit up whatever is in her stomach. The dirt is still in the air from the stampede, and the sound of pounding hooves reaches Makaria’s ears finally. A herd of spooked horses race away from the scene, already far off. Villagers are running in their direction from the village meters away. A young boy is laying on the ground, staring with wide eyes. But he is not staring at Makaria. He’s looking past her at the dying man.

“Papa!” cries the boy, and he rushes forward.

“Quickly,” Hermes reprimands. “His energy is almost gone.”

Makaria wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, the back of her hand on the dirt ground. The villagers draw near, but none slow down as they barrel forward. The boy is half-laying over his father. The father sucks in a breath. It stutters. Then stops. Particles lift from the man’s mouth as he lets out his final breath.

“Gather them,” Hermes orders.

Makaria moves over to the man and, avoiding looking at him while standing as far from him and the boy as possible, she grabs each of the particles as more and more rise. She picks up her skirt and uses it as a pouch. The man’s energy has a hard, marble-like center which Makaria feels through the soft, pulsating, gel-like outer shells. Soon, there are no more, and when she looks at those in her skirt, as they touch one another, they join together until they have formed one larger ball of light. She picks it up. 

“Good,” Hermes says. “Now to bring it to Hades and finish the second half of your assignment.” This time he holds out his arm, which Makaria takes, and is mentally prepared for the falling sensation. When the ground beneath her grows sturdy, her surroundings have become the underworld’s throne room.

Hades sits on his throne, waiting, with Persephone at his side. His fingers thrum against the throne’s armrest. Makaria steps forward with the energy in her hands. It is neither cold nor hot and with its almost non-existent weight, it almost doesn’t feel like Makaria is carrying anything. Only slight movements in the air around the ball give away any feeling of holding something.

“She couldn’t go by herself,” Hermes reports, one hand behind his back and the other holding his helmet against his hip. Towhead blonde waves lay unruly atop his head in every direction. “She’ll need to practice traveling on her own. She did struggle with separating herself from the human’s death, especially when it was violent, so she’ll have to talk to Ker about that and to both her and Thanatos about disengaging.”

Makaria watches Hades’s face carefully as Hermes spoke, but the god of the underworld gave nothing away. Persephone’s gaze shifted to Makaria at the mention of Thanatos.

“Why can’t _you_ teach her?” Persephone asks.

“I travel differently unless I have to bring someone,” Hermes says with a pointed glare at Makaria. “And I am a psychopomp, not Death itself. I am never engaged because I cannot engage.”

Persephone nods while also moving forward to sit on the edge of her seat, looking like she’d biting back a retort.

“Very well,” Hades says. He beckons Makaria forward. She holds up the ball to him. “Do you know what you’re holding?”

Makaria’s eyes lock onto what appears to be a ball of light. She recalls the particles lifting from the man, the boy crying, the particles condensing, and the villager’s screams.

“It’s his pneuma, isn’t it?” she asks. "But I thought people walk here." 

Hades stands, steps down from his throne, and takes the pneuma into his hands. “Yes,” he says. "They usually travel on their own after the go through the full transformation of death. The fire burning normally releases their pneuma self, and they carry their obol, but not everyone is given a pyre so you need to know how to remove it by hand." The ball stays in one place in the air even as he lets it go and his hands circle all around it. His hand passes between it and Makaria, blocking it for a moment, and then the pneuma is gone. 

“How-?” Makaria stops herself. “What happened? Will I learn how to do that?”

“I sent his pneuma to the entrance. He will wait there until his family sets up his pyre, and he gets his coin to give to Charon,” Hades says. “And yes, you will learn, though all it entails is thinking of and focusing on where you want to send them.”

As easy as it sounds, if today is any indication, her duties are not as easy as just thinking of something.

“Thank you, Hermes,” Hades says. “She will see you tomorrow.” Hermes bows, puts his helmet back on, and with a stomp, flies up. He goes straight through the ceiling of the underworld, disappearing. Makaria gawks.

“Now, I believe it is time for you to finish the rest of today’s tests,” Hades says. “I believe you know where to find Ker and Thanatos.”

Dread washed over Makaria like a bucket of ice water abruptly being thrown onto her.

“Yes,” she mumbles.

“I’ll go with you,” Persephone says.

“No,” Hades says in a gentle tone. “She needs to be able to do these on her own.”

“Didn’t Hermes help her?”

“Not with the original task I wanted her to do, which was get the pneuma,” he says.

Persephone purses her lips into a line as thin as the horizon before looking at Makaria. “Good luck, Makaria,” she says.

“Thank you.” Makaria drags her feet through and out of the throne room. She can’t decide whether seeing the Keres, or Ker, or Thanatos would be worse. She does not want to see Thanatos at all costs, though. There are too many variables and too many uncertainties.

[Hermes, 1886, Jonnard](https://www.heritage-print.com/hermes-1886-artist-jonnard-15466562.html)

[Silver kylix](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kylix) with Helen and Hermes, ca. 420 BC, part of [the Vassil Bojkov Collection](https://vassilbojkovcollection.bg/), Sofia, Bulgaria (see the first image on the right) 

[Reinterpretation of Charon's Crossing by Alexander Litovchenko](http://allart.biz/photos/image/Charon_carries_souls_across_the_river_Styx.html)

Charon and Psyche (1883), oil on canvas, by John Roddam Spencer Stanhope

Roman skull with an obol

Example of a Charon's obol 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Pneuma (πνεῦμα) - literally "breath," but often translated to the English meaning of "soul" or "spirit." Seems like it's translated either way, just depends on the translator and the context. Found in various antiquated Greek sources, including medical and philosophy, as well as Judaic and Christian sources.  
> \- definition with translations: https://oxfordre.com/classics/view/10.1093/acrefore/9780199381135.001.0001/acrefore-9780199381135-e-5145  
> \- basics: https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/ancient-soul/  
> \- oracle of Dekphi connection: https://www.jstor.org/stable/40646042?casa_token=k72mW_s-LeoAAAAA%3AoSeCwSxsE_28c-s7_VrNOW_n8bokYSHxAORs_Ao5UucgOm0R4wPyN_MQi2rT2J3tGoaxaSYX4IPdT6Btxb5A8VaVsJ_csJJLRskN8iRF3WAjXjislTn5#metadata_info_tab_contents  
> \- if interested in connection to Aristotle and premodern Greek medicine: https://itetsu.jp/main/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/JPEHCM11-kihara.pdf  
> \- book on the concept: https://www.google.com/books/edition/Heat_Pneuma_and_Soul_in_Ancient_Philosop/HljPDwAAQBAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=Pneuma+(%CF%80%CE%BD%CE%B5%E1%BF%A6%CE%BC%CE%B1)+ancient+greece&pg=PR7&printsec=frontcover  
> \- another book summary on the concept: https://press.princeton.edu/books/paperback/9780691101903/the-early-greek-concept-of-the-soul
> 
> (2) Charon's obol - from what I understand, they differ from the typical coin with monetary/capital purpose and value. I think they tend to be of less value and thinner  
> \- As a part of burial practices/rituals: https://www.jstor.org/stable/1088792?casa_token=b5H8QTb74aYAAAAA%3AeamY1FsMJGcPMvyQJDG6BpNctPMUDpWZQpXkrlLFla216AvbUd8qPYf--O_hnMQ1DjAQPHKFfWBTJy3yOnJG5aw9E0ntwEs2dN4syVQ1lMgkdJ_dEAfM&seq=1#metadata_info_tab_contents  
> \- Case study: https://traj.openlibhums.org/article/id/3877/  
> \- impact on modern religion: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2c/Charon-obol2.jpg
> 
> Side note, not connecting directly to this story: comparison of Charun in Etruscan mythos (vs. Greek Charon/Kharon): https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Charun
> 
> No other historical/background notes, wanted to be a bit more creative/"original" (in quotations bc technically nothing is really all that original these days, plus this whole story comes from already existing myths and ideas)m and so decided not to do too much research, but if there are questions do lmk know in the comments or on Twitter :)


End file.
